


Fading Interest

by SrebrnaFH



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Hurt John, I cried over chapter 7, M/M, Mike Stamford as Tuutikki, Mycroft is a good brother, Ninny the invisible child, Physical manifestation of depression, Probably slightly magical reality, Protective John, Protective Sherlock, Reconciliation, References to Moomins, Sherlock being a bit of an idiot, different first meeting, war memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-05 14:54:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 29,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18368327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SrebrnaFH/pseuds/SrebrnaFH
Summary: When working in the lab at Barts, Sherlock gets a visit from Mike Stamford and his... invisible friend?No, it's not Mike going mad. He actually DOES have an invisible friend. Who lends Sherlock his mobile.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There is a gif with John disappearing while sitting in his little sad room:  
>   
> And that sparked the idea that my mind mixed with the Moomin story about Ninni, the Invisible Child. So, here it is.  
> It will be 3-4 posts, no more.  
> Hah. Updated: Maybe 9 ;)

The lab was quiet, cool and, what was probably the most important part, isolated from the areas of the "teaching hospital" that contained the objects of said teaching, medical students. His access to the rooms and the tools was hard-won, by a combination of bribery (on the side of his brother), intimidation and effrontery (on his) and wilfull blindness (on Molly's). He relished the relative peace as he put yet another slide under the microscope and adjusted the lenses.

The door opened and he felt compelled to glance up, just in case it was some benighted soul in search of doctor something-or-other, desperate enough to try the mortuary lab. He liked to send them on a wild goose chase across the hospital. Most never came back. Either something ate them or they grew smart enough not to try this room again.

This time, however, it was no student - the person who crossed the threshold could, by conservative estimate, contain three... no, four, underfed medical students. Mike Stamford was a man whose presence Sherlock neither sought out nor avoided - professional, kind, knowledgeable, willing to answer the most outlandish questions and, what Sherlock valued the most, silent at his work. When one worked with Molly, one was always bombarded by her exclamations, grousing, small snuffling noises she made as she thought and, if the mood struck her, _gossip_. As if Sherlock knew who "Kate and William" were. Probably worked in some other part of the hospital.

Mike was behaving rather unusually though. He entered the lab, but then held the door open for a few more heartbeats, as if letting someone in. Yet, there was nobody.

_Does Mike have a little dog?_

"Here we are. A bit different from our times, isn't it?" he said into thin air and waited, before shrugging. "This is the main mortuary lab."

_Ah-ha. Green paint. Finally._

_Would he be showing the dog around?_

_Did the only reasonable person here go mad?_

"Mike, can I borrow your phone?"

The rotund medic patted his pockets and shrugged.

"In my coat, I suppose. What's wrong with the landline?"

"I prefer to text," he scrunched his nose. He would have to go and fetch his mobile and...

Someone patted his elbow and a large, fairly new smartphone hovered in front of his face, screen already unlocked. As he hesitated, the mobile was pushed into his hand, which he found... patted?

Male hand. Short, thick fingers. Soft. No manual work.

But, what was the most important characteristics, the hand was invisible.

There were ways to stop oneself from screaming in fear like a toddler at the sight of broccoli and Sherlock quickly and successfully deployed three of them - rapid swallowing, deep breath and singing a random song in his brain. Anything that would require less focus would, in turn, allow the panic to set in. No losing focus.

"Thank you," he hoped that wherever the person was, in relation to him, he still managed to address him effectively.

It was definitely a man.

Also, a man of certain education.

The surgical instruments on the tray were getting quietly and creepily rearranged into some other - maybe more efficient? - order. It was not a mindless reflex that some non-professionals would express - pick up, look at the scary blade, put it away quickly. It was methodical and pointed and...

Bart's. Mike. Mike smiling at him from the other side of the room, one eyebrow raised slightly in challenge.

_Oh._

He turned to look at the spot where the man should have been standing and thought, letting his fingers dance on the phone, sending a suggestion to Lestrade who to look for.

"Thank you," he held out the phone on his open palm, waiting for it to be picked up.

Yes, definite contact with another hand, dry and warm. Short, blunt nails.

The phone floated to the side and Sherlock tried to map the way it was moving to a normal gait of a grown-up person...

_Ah. Correction._

There was an additional sound that coincided with every other step.

"You could sit down, you know," he said and waited for a moment for reaction.

Here it was. The phone froze mid-air and then slowly, slowly turned halfway to him and down.

So the man was now facing him, his free hand down - he was probably squeezing the handle of the cane in the other - and looking at him.

"I'm just saying, there are plenty of chairs here."

The phone turned towards Mike.

And...

_Ah-ha. There is something there._

A shimmer. Maybe. Something so non-solid that his eyes burned just from looking at it.

"This is my uni mate, Doctor Watson," Mike provided finally, confirming his guess about the profession.

"And he is looking for a flatmate," Sherlock interrupted him, not taking his eyes off from the spot where he had noticed the slight blurring of reality. "He is... ah, accident? No... an injury, but not accident, or he would be receiving payments from his insurance."

The hand with the phone, stiffly held at his side.

At attention.

_Ah._

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So they meet at 221B.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this will close in 4 chapters. Maybe 5, tops.

There was, rather expectedly, no sign of John Watson at 221 the next day, but Sherlock simply stood and waited.

He had had to dash the day before - there was a court case he wished to see in person, because the man standing accused of murder was innocent. It wasn’t that Sherlock was planning to intervene (but he would not write the idea off), should the verdict be inauspicious to the man, but it was of interest to him to see the reactions of people in the audience when the court came to the decision. Rather boringly, the real killer did in fact come to witness his business rival being sentenced and, when the judge decided to pronounce the man innocent, betrayed himself by reacting. Badly.

Thus allowing Sherlock to make certain observations regarding his height, his weight and, most notably, his shoe size and lack of one fingertip.

By now the man would be - hopefully - in Lestrade’s care and Sherlock could meet Doctor Watson in order to offer him the use of his free bedroom, next-to-unused (apart from some small… ish… experiments) kitchen and not-that-antique bathroom.

What he did not consider was how to introduce Doctor Watson to Mrs Hudson, which could prove to be a challenge, since the man would need to be able to use the flat - get in, get out, have lights on and make noises, which would not be expected if their landlady heard Sherlock go out…

Suddenly, though, he was there. Or at least his phone was, drawing Sherlock’s attention.

“Hello,” he swallowed and finally opened the door. “We should go upstairs, before the landlady…”

It was too late, because she was already on them - on him, effusive and flighty.

“Finally! I had a look upstairs and you’ve left it in such a mess, seriously, Sherlock! How can you expect to ever attract a flatmate if you keep this flat in such a state…!”

“Ah, well, about this…” he saw Watson’s phone slowly drifting up the stairs. “I had spoken to - well, there will be someone coming to stay - and, well, I need to ask you not to go upstairs until I tell you… He is a retired soldier and startles easily. It wouldn’t do to make him feel too pressured into… into contact. He may be staying in during the days, so don’t worry if you hear someone walking around or…”

Her eyes went round and she nodded quickly.

“I absolutely understand. Go on then, Sherlock, pick that mess up a little before he arrives. It really is a wonder sometimes… Well, no matter. I’ll drop by later and bring you some tea.”

“No, thank you,” he said quickly, looking to the side, but a slight pressure of something rectangular on his back told him John had been reasonable enough to hide it when Mrs Hudson entered the stage. “I think I will order something in and wait for him to call me.”

She sniffed slightly, obviously unhappy about the inability to see her new tenant in person, but turned and went back to her own flat, leaving him with admonishing “Clean that mess, Sherlock! The kitchen is unfit for human beings!” while he managed to let himself and John in without it looking overly weird when he held the door open for additional few seconds.

“Upstairs,” he murmured to where he had seen the phone last. “I must admit it is… well. Slightly chaotic.”

There was no obvious reaction from the man by his side, but the moving blurring of the air told him doctor Watson had started climbing the stairs - making barely any sound, bar the remote scuffle of shoes on the carpet and faint tapping of the cane.

He hurried up, to open the door to his flat, trying to somehow walk around the man he knew was there, but in the gloom of the landing it was hard to work out his exact location, even despite the phone being right there, so the next thing he knew he was colliding with a warm, solid body of doctor John Watson, the invisible man. As he winced - like any reasonable person hitting an invisible obstacle would - a pair of strong hands caught him and held him up, stopping him from tripping over his own feet and, most probably, tumbling down the stairs. There was a feeling of strange security as he breathed deeply, coming down from the sudden shot of adrenaline his organism presented him with and he leaned into the supportive embrace of the silent, invisible soldier in front of him.

He could feel the thick cloth of a jacket - elbow patches, probably reinforced with suede - and a woollen jumper, shoulders lower than his own, the man was probably five to six inches shorter than him, but it was impossible to check without touching him some more and that could be… less than well-received.  Not that it mattered, but it wouldn’t do to scare away a potential flatmate before he even saw their potentially shared flat, would it?

He drew a shuddering breath and smiled - tried to smile.

“Thank you,” he managed, before stepping around the invisible soldier - and didn’t  _that_  bring up ideas! - and unlocking the door. “Come on in,” he nodded. “It may be slightly untidy, but I can certainly make space for your things and I hope you won’t be offended by an occasional forgotten experiment, but I tend to do some tests at home when I can’t access Barts’ lab, so…”

It was hard, he found, to talk into thin air as if there was someone he was talking to. There was, of course - he had some very much material proof that John Watson did, in fact, exist, but his mind declined to understand how someone could just…  _fade_  like that. It was scientifically impossible. It was more than he could accept to be biologically…  _Ah._

“Would you allow me to take a sample of your blood?” he blurted out.

And froze.

There was no movement, no life, no reaction to his question.

He started squirming in his place, suddenly unsure of himself. He was  _never_  unsure of himself and now, suddenly, in the face of the  _unknown_ , or rather, The  _Unknown_ , capital T, capital U here, he was behaving like a schoolkid.

There.

An echo of a suggestion of a sigh.

A tap of fingers on his palm. His finger pressed into a fleshy pad of one of these fingers - ah, index.

“Yes, thank you, just a drop will be enough. I hope. I’m not sure what your condition is, but I’m… I’m very curious.”

He could admit he was curious. After all, if he couldn’t admit he was curious of an invisible man’s condition  _to_  the invisible man in question, who could he admit it to? His brother?

He shivered at the thought.

“I hope, with proper scientific research, I can help you regain your solidity… that is, of course, if you  _wish_  to regain it…” he trailed off, unsure. It was damnably hard. He had no clues to lead him, nothing that would tell him whether Watson was feeling offended, bored, curious, hopeful or angry. Nothing to work on but occasional touches and the movement of the smartphone that was now lying flat on the kitchen table.

But…

…there was something.

A sigh, again.

And…

Sherlock blinked.

Laughter?

“Are you laughing at me?” he asked, turning sharply towards the table.

Something fell with a clatter. A spoon.

The phone had been snatched from the table and a line of letters appeared on it.

 

CAN YOU HEAR ME?

 

“No, not really. I just heard… as if someone was laughing from a distance. Was it you?”

 

SORRY. IT JUST SOUNDED…

 

He waited.

 

AS IF YOU WERE AFRAID.

 

The letters came slowly, laboriously.

 

“If you can write, why didn’t you communicate with me earlier?”

 

NOT

 

He waited.

 

NOT EVERYONE SEES THE TEXT.

ALSO, I TYPE SLOWLY. HARD, WITH THE CANE.

 

Ah. Well, that explained a lot. But there was a very basic solution…

“Since I can see you writing on the phone, I would presume I can - knowing you are here - see you writing on something else. I’m guessing you tried that before - sent some letters? Left a note for your landlord?”

 

YES

 

“And they were all…?”

 

IGNORED.

 

Sherlock pulled a thick pocket notepad from his desk drawer and dug up a mostly unused pen from one of the drawers (he would definitely have to do something about  _that_ ). He brought his finds to the table and waited for his guest to make use of them.

Another suggestion of a sigh and the pen was raised, opened, checked and then, leaning to the left - why would anyone… - started writing, scratching the paper slightly.

 

_Thank you for your hospitality, Mr Holmes._

 

“You can call me Sherlock,” he interrupted. “I hope I can call you John?”

 

_Absolutely._

_And yes, your guess is correct. I’ve written a few notes to other people - anything from texts to my sister, to notes to the landlord… Apparently institutions and machines are immune, so the ATMs work fine - as if I would be able to buy anything, but that’s beside the topic - and I managed to pay my rent through a bank transfer._

_It is beginning to be rather tiresome and I would be happy to change my circumstances and move to a place where I can rely on another person’s presence. Since Mike…_

 

The writing stopped and the pen was laid aside.

For some reason, Watson - John - couldn’t continue.

Sherlock waited.

And waited.

The notepad paper darkened in one spot.

And another.

And another.

He reached blindly into his pocket and drew a package of tissues out, handing it to the shimmery, mostly transparent vision of a suggestion of a person in front of him.

“John,” he said finally, feeling his throat squeezed shut in an unfamiliar tension. “You can stay, yes, absolutely. There is a room upstairs - second bedroom, maybe a bit on a smallish side, but it will give you privacy. We can set up… Something. I’m… I’m not sure I’ll be the best companion, but I will be here, at least most of the time.”

The package was picked up, slowly, and his fingers were pressed by a shaky hand.

“Can I… are your clothes always invisible? If you take them off, will I see them?”

The shimmer stilled. And then moved, in a different fashion. After a momentary blur, he felt something being put in his hands.

The jacket.

It was not exactly obscuring the objects below it - like his hands - but it was as if looking through a very thick pane of glass.

And then it was a grey pane of glass.

And black.

And a black canvas jacket, with elbow patches and some fraying around the seams, slowly materialised - or maybe solidified - in his hands.

“A black, military-style jacket,” he murmured.

A tissue was pulled from the package and the sound of a nose being blown was more than just a suggestion.

“OK. I’ve heard that,” he notified his object of observation. “Can you tell me more than Mike was able to say? What happened? When? When did you notice?”

The pen was picked up, surveyed carefully and then replaced on the table again.

Pen. There was something wrong with the pen?

People didn’t like writing with others’ pens, after they had been used and the nib conformed to someone else’s hand, but this one was fairly new, it should not scratch or…

The pen was raised again and put to paper.

Wrong side.

Of course it was hard to write when each move stabbed the paper instead of gliding over it.

“Let me give you a pencil,” he murmured quickly. “And I’ll put the kettle on. Would you like a cuppa?”

A snort.

A definite, amused snort.

Of course John Watson wanted a cup of tea. He was British, tired and in an unfamiliar social situation. The only thing that could make it better was tea.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some more progress.  
> Also, Mycroft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter in a day. Huh.
> 
> Warning: I cried a little bit while writing this.

Over the course of the following days Sherlock learnt a number of facts regarding John Watson, and was quite sure John had learnt a lot about him. And yet, the man was still there - making tea, quietly listening to the radio, reading newspapers and writing tons of notes to Sherlock.

They could converse easily once Sherlock caught up to the fact that John was lefthanded and was not very comfortable with a fountain pen, so they sat at the kitchen table side by side, Sherlock asking and John writing the answers (or not) and John scribbling his questions and Sherlock replying (or not). They seemed to have struck a kind of camaraderie that Sherlock would have not thought possible mere weeks before.

He ordered food - takeaway and groceries delivery (unfortunately even online shops required someone to be there to sign for the package), he bought items John asked for and he met up with Mike in order to fetch John's things from his old flat.

 

#

 

John simply wrote the door code on a post-it note and handed Sherlock the key. It took a few minutes for the key to reappear - much longer than the jacket, actually - but it was there, cold and all sharp-edged, even when it was just a blur in reality.

 

_Just put my clothes from the drawers into the big duffel, it is in the closet. And there should be some books, too, and my laptop. Bathroom stuff is mostly rubbish, only the straight razor is worth taking. Toothbrush, too. All the things in the closet will fit in the smaller duffel, and that would be it._

_Thank you._

 

John patted his hand and squeezed his fingers when he handed him the note. It was both "thank you" and "I'm sorry", which was what he seemed to be exuding most of the time.

"No problem," he found himself reassuring his unusual flatmate. "We should be back in two hours, not more. Mike probably will wish to visit."

 

_OK._

 

It felt unusual, to be so careful about someone's feelings - especially in case of a man, another bloke, just some guy that his not-really-a-coworker introduced on a whim! It was... unexpected.

John as a whole was unexpected.

As of second day, Sherlock already knew so much more. John's handwriting was slanted and with a slightly doctor-y trend to be illegible when he got tired, but in general perfectly clear. He was most comfortable in soft, covering clothes - the woollen jumper, the flannel button-down and softly worn-out denims proved that. He was brisk with his shower and left the bathroom clean. He slept fitfully and uneasily, which was proved by his slight morning grumpiness.

He liked toast with jam, which Sherlock approved of, and made a well-brewed cup of tea. He was fine sharing the morning paper and offered to do the dishes.

 

_I can't do much to help you with the upkeep - won't be able to pay half of what you are paying for this place, to be sure. But at least I can try to help you keep it in order and not lethal to human beings._

_By the way, are these human or pig kidneys in the fridge, and if pig, what do you intend to do with them?_

_Also, the milk carton has grown a fancy green beard. Do I want to know what you were planning to do with it?_

 

"These are human kidneys that Molly - doctor Hooper - gave me some time ago so that I can check how long it takes for alcohol to be leeched out after dissection. At this point they still show significant level of it and it's been five weeks."

 

_Fascinating. Any particular use, or are you just being the grossest kid on the block?_

 

"Identification of victim's blood alcohol level may be a significant indicator of their state before death."

 

_Ah._

 

John was surprisingly fine with a lot of things Sherlock would have assumed could be unacceptable for a standard human being (at least going by his past, failed attempts at keeping a flatmate), but that could have been simply due to his lack of options. Apparently even a gross, annoying, intrusive flatmate was better than his existence until the day before.

And once Sherlock saw John's so-called flat, he felt understanding dawning.

 

#

 

This was no place for a man to live. Nobody should be housed in conditions like that... Maybe convicted murderers. Perhaps politicians. Ah, to put some of Mycroft's enemies in a place like that... He could actually see himself suggesting this to his brother the next time he saw him.

Not too soon, though.

The colouring (off-beige and some faded peach), the decoration (nonexistent), the state of the furniture (next best thing to shabby), the outside (concrete), the light (weak) and the overpowering, everlasting smell of someone else's fish dinner. _He_ with his Mind Palace and endless storage of fascinating content to entertain himself would probably last two weeks in that place before defacing one of the peach-grey walls. With someone's brain matter.

Mike seemed not to be doing much better.

"Closet, two bags, according to him. The contents of the dresser, closet and his laptop. Razor and other toiletries. He seemed indifferent to them, but I think it doesn't make sense to leave anything, just in case he feels better about them later."

Mike silently handed him the bag and took himself towards the dresser, where he proceeded to stuff John Watson's meagre belongings in the large canvas duffel with Army patches and scribbled signatures.

"His unit," Mike raised a picture frame that had been hidden in the top drawer. "His sister," another frame.

"Why did he keep them hidden? I though people kept them on display..."

Sherlock mechanically reached inside the closed and fetched the first object, a rolled-up blanket.

"Well, not sure he wanted to look at them every day," Mike shrugged. "And it's not like he could have people over here, right?"

Quite right, in fact.

"Mike," he sniffed at the overcoat and decided not to roll it up. "How come you know - you see John?"

"I don't," came the easy answer. "But it seems this thing works differently, depending on how you look at life. His sister was worried that he wasn't answering her texts, so she looked through some old books and found me, as the one who co-wrote some papers with John _and_ was living in London. I had met John anyway in the park a few weeks earlier, so we already had some kind of a revived connection and when he answered _my_ texts and agreed to meet, I was expecting to _see_ him. Seems the expectation works as... some kind of reinforcement. I saw an empty bench where we were supposed to meet and so I called him - heard a mobile nearby and looked around..." Mike looked up at Sherlock. "I almost fainted. The mobile floating in midair... hard stuff to swallow."

"So," Sherlock pulled a long garment cover off the pole and checked the bottom of the closet, just in case. "How did he tell you what he needed? He wrote me nobody saw what he was writing."

"For one, I definitely saw his texts," Mike reminded him. "And I asked him a lot of yes and no questions. Found us a bench away from the crowd and went through everything, like with an accident victim. Got to 'do you feel safe living by yourself' and from there, looking for a flatmate was rather obvious. Three days later you were grousing about needing to pick someone to live with, because your landlady doesn't want you there alone... so, there you were, like tailor-made for John."

"You mean, someone mad enough and curious enough to jump on an offer of sharing my flat with someone they can't see."

"And someone who may, I suppose, be the one to work out how to get my old mate back. I have no idea, frankly, but it's something out of my experience as a simple surgeon."

Sherlock checked the upper shelf of the closed and snagged a little flat box. He brought it to the room, under the abysmally weak lamp, and pulled off the cover.

"Da-mn," Mike sighed in the middle of the curse. "A nice collection."

Sherlock turned one cautiously.

_Capt. J.H.Watson_

"All his."

"All his, yes. RAMC normally doesn't see a lot of action, but when they do... John saved people under fire. He got shot when dragging an injured soldier away from the fire. There were complications..." Mike poked another medal. "A lot of metal for such a short guy. Well, that should go to the duffel, too. I have a box for anything that looks like his in the kitchen corner, you pick up the bathroom stuff and we should get back to him. Probably some food wouldn't go amiss. He has been half-starving ever since he started losing... whatever it is that happened. Living on vending machine food, a lot. Bad tea, very bad tea. And..."

That much was obvious. No shopping for John, no outings, no subway rides. He had to walk everywhere and avoid people physically, so he probably picked shopping mall halls next to closing time to do make his purchases, because machines did _not_ ignore him. But a grown man, probably a man of good, muscled built - if Sherlock could extrapolate from what he felt at the landing - would not be able to survive long on such fare.

"Let's pick some Indian," he suggested. "Something with a lot of protein."

Mike agreed, pushing the last medical textbook between the clothes and closing the zipper.

"Spicy," was his only remark. "John likes it spicy."

 

#

 

John liked it spicy, hot, savoury and with a lot of flavour. Indian takeout seemed to disappear in front of their eyes at unnatural speed. The same went for the coffee they picked up at one of the tiny but really good cafes and a container of tiny pastries that Mike had suggested when they passed by the bakery.

"We took everything we found," the good doctor reported. "Your medals box, too. Sherlock found it on the shelf. If he wasn't such a long git, we would have missed it."

And then there was that thing.

Something flickered, for a moment.

As if an operator somewhere threw a switch, very quickly, to and fro.

And the outline was much more solid, when John picked up the pad and wrote quickly _I forgot about them. Thank you._

Sherlock chewed on a piece of chicken and kept his eyes focused on where he had, for just a moment, seen a pair of large, blue eyes, watching him from under blond eyebrows.

One of the photos would obviously show what John looked like, but that would have been much too easy. He wanted to find out by himself.

He was very much sure he would, soon, very soon, see Doctor John H. Watson in person, even if he had to... No, he wasn't yet desperate enough to ask his brother for help. It wasn't that bad.

 

#

 

Apparently thinking about Mycroft was a way to summon his long nose and sneering grin for a visit, as the next day - the second morning of John's presence in 221B - that nose and grin made an appearance.

He woke up on the sofa where he had fallen asleep after having sat at the microscope for half a night. John's blood, once it became visible, looked depressingly normal. Also, the way it went from invisible liquid to actual blood made it impossible to observe the first in its natural, translucent state. It became red the moment it hit the specimen slide, preventing him from making any detailed observations.

It was frustrating and annoying, but not as much as his brother's presence in the leather armchair next to his head.

"What do you want, Mycroft?" he grunted, heaving himself up. "Isn't it a bit too early for dropping off my lump of coal? It's the middle of January, for heaven's sake."

"I've received a curious report," his brother tapped his briefcase handle. "Claiming that you had been seen in the company of one doctor Stamford - who can be considered something of a coworker of yours - emptying a flat belonging to a complete stranger. Can you explain your actions in this matter?"

"Oh, do not be tiresome, Mycroft," he rose and stomped into the kitchen. "I merely helped Stamford with moving some things his mate asked him to fetch. He is, as you can surmise from your recordings, vertically _and_ physically challenged, so he needed someone taller and fitter to help him. I agreed and so we went, end of story."

His brother's slow nod told him how much his fabrication did not, in fact, work.

"And would there be some explanation for the presence of a black jacket - inferior quality, military cut, somewhat worn out - hanging next to your coat?"

_Damnation._

"Considering that the flat you've been seen raiding used to belong to one Captain John Hamish Watson, RAMC, I will make an educated guess that _OUCH_."

Ouch, indeed. Captain John Hamish Watson not only didn't like being called out by his full name (and Sherlock completely commiserated with him on that point) but also had a deadly aim. A bottlecap was innocently rolling under the sofa while Mycroft jumped up to his full, not inconsiderable, height, and was looking around the flat suspiciously.

John had been smart enough to leave his phone upstairs and only a slight shimmering of air in the corner by the bookcase betrayed his position to Sherlock's knowing eye.

"I'm not sure what you are implying, _brother_ , but if there is any jacket on my coat rack, then the jacket should be on my coat rack and I don't see any reason why I should explain this matter to you. Although, if I were you, I'd check the hooks again, because from where I'm standing, there is only my Belstaff hanging there."

Clever, clever John. Well, it wasn't _very_ clever, in the long run, to piss off Mycroft, but it was cleverly done, for now, because it took the jacket out of Mycroft's grasp and annoyed his brother to a hitherto unseen level.

Sherlock watched his brother getting into the government-issued car and hoped for a minor international crisis.

 

#

 

There were smaller and bigger aspects of John's personality that he learnt during the following week. Eating habits - a lot, but once the first hunger passed, he liked to savour, especially new things. No alcohol - reasonably. Could brew a very nice tea even if the leaves were inferior. No sugar, lots of milk. Coffee - instant was accepted, but not the lowest grade. A cup from a good cafe was appreciated. He needed to have milk and bread at home, no matter what. Ate protein-rich breakfasts, well-balanced lunches and light, vegetable-based suppers. Drank at least two litres of liquids daily, tea and water together.

He exercised - at least push-ups and sit-ups, from what Sherlock could hear.

Still nobody but him and Stamford had actually noticed John's presence, despite him being more and more audible daily. Mrs Hudson asked about his mysterious flatmate, but he assured her that the man was mostly resting after being released from hospital, so it wouldn't do to disturb him.

The clothes they brought over were carefully unpacked and deposited in the wardrobe and chest of drawers that furnished the upper bedroom. All shop brands, all well-worn, soft and in utterly forgettable colours. Even the jacket - it was moved to the hook on the back of John's door - was not perfectly black, but black dulled and dusted with grey, as if left out in the sun for too long.

Sherlock did not inspect John's room or his possessions once the man had unpacked them, but he did assist in hefting the bags upstairs - John's cane was a major obstacle in any kind of pursuits that required two hands - and then stayed, talking to John, telling him about the conversation they had had with the landlord, about the mail forwarding he had set up, about the suspicious-looking neighbour on the other side of the corridor, whose dog looked as if it was trained in sniffing out drugs - and stealing them.

He heard John's laughter a few times that evening.

It sounded more and more clear.

 

#

 

Day six started with rain drumming on their windowpanes.

And there was no John in the living room or the kitchen.

Not only was there no sign of the phone, but also Sherlock could not detect the specific shimmer that he had learnt to identify John's presence by.

No invisible soldier in his kitchen.

That sounded weird. Even weirded than his usual weird. It was... unsettling.

"John?" he asked in an undertone. "Are you there?"

Nothing.

Softly, trying not to disturb him if he was still asleep, he crept upstairs.

_Ah._

There was a little heap of blankets that showed where John Watson was, in fact. A little shivering heap of blankets.

And...

...was that a sob?

What was he supposed to do?

He reached out, cautiously touching the shaking shape.

The sobs suddenly ceased. As did the movement and the breathing.

"John," he said, unsure what to do - in the face of a crying grownup man that he _could not actually see_. "John, it's fine. It's me, Sherlock. You're safe. I won't let you be forgotten."

There was something happening, the man was sitting up, shuddering, shaking the blankets off.

Sherlock's hand was caught in John's two strong, deft, smaller hands, and pulled up and towards - as he squinted - the shoulder.

His fingers met hard, chilled, real flesh, slick with sweat. And a gnarled, misshapen mass of a scar.

"May I?"

His hand was pressed in, closer.

Carefully, tracing the spot with just his fingertips, he mapped the site of the wound. It was a large, unnatural-feeling area, bigger than his own palm.

"Exit wound?"

One pat - the code for "yes".

"In-infection?" he guessed.

One pat.

And his hand was moved to the back, to much smaller scar.

_Entry wound. This one was clean. Probably front got infected when he fell forward._

"Infection," he swallowed. "Because they didn't pick you up immediately?"

One pat.

 _Ah_.

"Did it start then? You felt... forgotten?"

A shrug.

A shiver.

"Someone missed your infections during their rounds," Sherlock guessed again, but it seemed to fit. "Someone who was supposed to pay attention, to care, to..."

A pat, but a weak one.

"And you were lying there, in pain - in fever - and you felt invisible to everyone."

Just a squeeze.

"And then they shipped you back home, just a number and a package of papers..."

_and a diagnosis of depression in my file_

He looked up, surprised.

"I can hear you," he said softly.

_oh thank god_

"John, I can hear you. It's like... like a radio turned way, way down, but..."

The shimmer in front of him curled up and rocked to and fro slightly.

There were darker spots on the blanket in front of him.

John was crying.

_oh god oh god you can hear me thank god i thought i will never be able to talk to anyone of thank you thank you thank you_

There was something unnatural in this room - apart from an invisible man on the bed - as the external sounds slowly fell away and all Sherlock's senses turned on his flatmate, who shook and shivered under his hands as if he was going to fall apart any moment.

Now, they couldn't have that, could they?

Sherlock didn't really make a very conscious decision as he drew the wounded soldier closer.

"I will remember. You are here, John, you are a person and I know you. You were injured and they forgot about you and you were lost, but you are found now, and you are here."

_you know nothing about me how can you say this it is not possible_

"You are Mike's friend. Mike is a reasonable bloke, even if he claims he is just 'a simple surgeon'. You were a captain in the army. RAMC. They don't let just anyone into the ranks. You take care of me, as much as you can - you clean the flat when I'm not there, don't even try to hide it, I saw the magazines being sorted. You trusted a total stranger because Mike advised you to - you are a basically good and honest person and you had hoped to find someone that would be the same. I'm not that good, but I can promise you, I will keep you always in my mind. I won't let you be forgotten and lost again."

A nod against his shoulder.

_thank you sherlock_

A pause.

_but why_

"Because you, John Watson, are endlessly fascinating."

_oh_

"Now. Tea? Coffee?"

_i could murder a cuppa and a painkiller_

He turned from the door, to look again where the glassy outline of a man sat, now drawing the blankets over his body.

"Was it the rain?"

_sounded like machine fire in my dreams_

Sherlock nodded, pulled his dressing gown closed, tied the belt and slowly descended the stairs to the kitchen.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some explanations.  
> And some more Mycroft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you spot some inconsistency or mis-edited sentence, please let me know. I've been at it for the whole day and by now the letters seem to be dancing in front of my eyes. Very unsettling.

"I've tested your blood, skin, nails and hair," he said the day after John became finally audible again - and after three days of intensive work at the microscope and in the lab at Barts. Now he knew John was blond, going prematurely grey and had slight iron deficiency. "I don't see anything specific that would mark you as different. No chemicals you had been exposed to, no radiation, nothing, in fact, that could have in any way affected your... visibility. Well, there is nothing in the world at all that could make anyone or anything invisible…! I can't make up my mind if that's more fascinating, frustrating or distracting."

 _try annoying as fuck,_ John suggested helpfully, handing him a mug of tea and the milk bottle. _i am not even trying to understand it i just want this to end but i feel_ _… helpless like stuck both feet in glue_

 

#

 

Despite all the focus Sherlock directed at John and all the contact they had, the doctor wasn't becoming more visible. Not much at least. In fact, most of the time he was transparent enough for a casual observer not to notice him at all, as most people would ignore the shimmer of hot air he now resembled. Yet, as they became more and more used to each other and Sherlock worked out how to look out for that specific bending of light, they found themselves living together in relative comfort - only occasionally affected by such easy to correct missteps as someone drinking the last of the milk and not buying a new bottle, while the other person was still unable to leave their shared lodgings due to being solidity-challenged. But these small obstacles did not prevent them from quickly coalescing into a tiny little almost-family unit - dysfunctional, what with John being completely dependent on Sherlock for his continued comfort and survival, but working.

Over the following week there were two nights when John's fears of fading away completely returned in force. He was very stoic about them, claiming not to be suffering unduly, but there was a strain in his voice and in the manner of his writing (when he temporarily lost his voice again) that disproved the content of the words, that is, the claim that he was, in fact, perfectly fine. Of course, the stiff upper lip, the soldierly way of dealing with the obstacles, the pride. Oh, the pride.

The deduction of John's mental and emotional state wasn't easy, as the lack of facial clues prevented Sherlock from taking the quick route when it came to identifying his flatmate's spirits, but, step by step and word by word, he worked it out. Or he hoped so. He was ninety percent sure he did. It was a combination of aforementioned pride, the overwhelming Britishness of the invisible soldier and his deeply internalised feeling of uselessness that made John claim he was perfectly well while Sherlock could see - even without _actually_ seeing the man - that he was suffering. There were layers upon layers upon layers of Very Wrong Things that had been done to John Watson's soul that were, in fact, responsible for his disappearance.

A lot of it seemed to be stemming from whatever stoic macho crap his father had been raising him on since he had lost his mother and then reinforced by the Army and his treatment at that accursed field hospital. His so-called therapist probably didn't help at all.

_Don't be a bother._

_Stay silent, wait for your turn._

_Be quiet or we'll skip you this time._

_The patient is overly lively, give him something to relax him._

_The patient is aggressive, restrain him._

_If you argue, you are healthy._

_You won_ _’t regain the use of this arm._

These little secrets, and dozens of others, John uttered in his sleep and in his feverish dreams, as his temperature raised dangerously during a harrowing bout of three-day flu. The picture they painted was mostly done in blacks, greys, specks of blood red and some sickly yellow.

Sherlock hoped dearly that Mr Watson the older was still alive, as he would then be able to track the imbecilic man down and murder him in some inventive fashion, leaving the local police force stupefied. He would have liked to watch some small-town cops gathering around the deceased and listening to the appropriate commissioner, learning the Official Version, just for the fun of it. They would have undoubtedly made a complete hash of it.

He would have to wait for that satisfaction though. For the time being he consoled himself with taking appropriate care of the Watson that life had dropped more or less on his doorstep. He deserved it.

 

#

 

There was so much good and, if he could call it so at their age, innocence in John Watson. The soul of a doctor who went to war and came back broken and forcibly pushed into the tight confines of civilian life, had been forged into a diamond by the pressures it underwent.

Yes, he knew he was waxing poetic about the man he hadn't even seen properly yet, but all the signs were there. John Watson was a truly good person that had been dealt way too many deuces in the rule-less game of life. John tried to play by the rules - some rules, any rules - but too much had been taken away from him. And yet, he persisted. Despite being forgotten by the system and ignored by his own family (Sherlock had seen his phone and there were dozens of text messages to his sister sent), despite the curious misfortune of his actual, physical disappearance, he was trying. And for some unfathomable reason he trusted Sherlock.

It was a rather weighty burden.

 

#

 

There were lighter and more comforting aspects of living with John, too.

Among many other things, John turned out to be very, very tactile.

It seemed as if at the same time as he got his voice back, he also regained some of his physical courage - not for significant acts worthy of a hero, but for simple things, like holding someone's hand for more than a fraction of a second.

For catching Sherlock's wrist when he wanted to direct him and words failed.

For patting Sherlock's shoulder when he became temporarily mute again.

For melting into a hug when Sherlock woke him up from another nightmare.

There was something endearing in the way their boundaries were falling away, stripped off by every subsequent hard morning, every evening spent in quiet company over some reading, every meal prepared in the small kitchen.

One of the contributing factors was, of course, John's invisibility - and when both of them were just waking up and sleepy, he seemed much more insubstantial than during the day - which made Sherlock walk into him a few times, caused them to bump hips at the counter or necessitated John to direct Sherlock bodily to something instead of saying it or pointing it out.

The other was... They were simply growing closer. In leaps and bounds.

Sherlock wasn't entirely sure what would have happened had John been fully _there_ \- he would have had a life outside of the safe confines of their flat, he would have been able to attract his attention by just waving instead of touching his hand, he would have had social interaction with Mrs Hudson and other people...

His conscience was prickling him occasionally, reminding him of his supposed research (which was forgotten when he woke up to the sounds of John retching in the bathroom, and how could he have contracted the flu...?) and some part of his brain insisted that John _had_ to regain some measure of self-sufficiency and stop being fully dependant on Sherlock for his continued existence.

He just didn't know _how_ to do it.

So, for the time being, he let the situation unfold by itself, including serving as a lifeline to the wounded soldier living in his second bedroom.

Said serving as a lifeline had quickly developed in an hitherto-unexpected direction, after one night, just after John's recovery from the flu, Sherlock ended up serving as source of comfort for the very much shaken doctor and then simply stayed until the crack of dawn, all wrapped up in John's soft, soft blankets. The fact that he apparently slept much better in the company of a breathing, warm, friendly body was quite a surprise, but not an unwelcome one.

The morning was rather tough on both of them, since John had regressed into silence and could only communicate on paper, but gradually, over the day, the sound came back. They were working on Sherlock's large stacks of a variety of scientific magazines and John was commenting on the content of old "Lancet" issues when Sherlock started hearing him yet again. By the time evening rolled about, they could easily converse again and so ate their dinner in good spirits and retired for the night.

Despite the fact that they were by that moment capable of audible communication, they never really discussed the sudden change in the sleeping arrangements. In fact, there was no specific change or... or anything. John had put away the dishes he had washed, Sherlock had stored away the last of "Criminology Monthly" and was settling down with one specific older issue, when his flatmate stood in the door to the bathroom and coughed in a meaningful fashion.

_i am going upstairs soon quite tired_

Sherlock blinked at the statement of the obvious - but then John never wasted the communication, as if he had only a limited amount of words to be said during the day. So he waited.

_will you be done soon because i hope you will come to bed before i fall asleep_

Oh. Well.

"I'll take the shower right after you're done," he answered finally. "Don't use all hot water."

_i am not the one who takes hour long showers mister squeaky clean smartarse_

 

#

 

They curled up together, Sherlock feeling slightly uncertain what to do with his hands and knees and other limbs of which he suddenly felt he had too many. Where was the hand supposed to go? Over? Under? Behind his back?

John sighed and quickly arranged them both to his satisfaction - and Sherlock's comfort - before falling asleep with his nose (snub, but substantial little nose) pressed into Sherlock's shoulder.

What else was there to do?

Only sleep.

He felt refreshed when he woke up to the sounds of first traffic on the street below them and just stayed there, awake and cuddled to the scarred, broad, muscled chest. They apparently rearranged themselves during the night and now he was wrapped around John, cheek to arm, surrounded by the warmth of the layers of blankets and their shared body heat.

He would have been happy to stay like that for the next week or so.

For the time being however he allowed his hands to wander, just a bit, not enough to wake John up. He checked the hair covering the pecs he had been resting on (very soft, and quite a lot of it, all over), the stubble on John's jaw (already going soft, hard to shave when one doesn't see a lot in the mirror) and John's hair (a bit overgrown from the army cut John had admitted to getting on the last day of his visibility). He felt a kiss pressed to the crown of his head as John murmured softly that he would stay in bed with a bottle or two of water, trying to replenish the lost liquids, but that Sherlock had an investigation to get back to (indeed, Lestrade's team had bungled the evidence collection and it was taking annoyingly long to work out the missing details).

That evening he simply followed John upstairs after brushing his teeth and taking a short shower. He didn't want to lose the moment when the soldier fell asleep against his body, going all soft and heavy by his side. Whatever it was, it worked as a perfect soporific, as Sherlock was asleep bare seconds later.

 

#

 

Unfortunately, "real" life and real, certainly living and very much annoying family disturbed the cautiously crafted serenity of 221B Baker Street, in the form of his older brother. Yet again.

This time he arrived maybe slightly later in the day than he normally would, or maybe Sherlock was up earlier, perfectly rested after having spent the night upstairs, sleeping tightly cuddled with John.

Ever since their little altercation with Mycroft, Sherlock knew they were living on borrowed time. He had tried not to focus on it too much, however, as he stole hours from his days - time he would have otherwise used for experiments, investigating Lestrade’s cases and looking for new private clients - and spent them studying John's problem.

Now his good mood was rather effectively squashed by the appearance of his brother, and that doubly so. Not only he had to endure the sibling's officiousness, he also couldn't go upstairs and check on John as long as Mycroft was there.

"And how goes your little project?" the annoying git grinned as Sherlock looked up at him in suspicion.

"Lestrade should fire half of his people and retire the other half," Sherlock murmured in distaste. "It's not like they are doing anything even remotely useful, after all. They managed to walk over the suspect's footprints..." he trailed off as he turned one of the photos. "No way to work out the shoe size to any certainty."

"And why, brother mine, didn't you go out and help them directly, if they are so incompetent?"

"Didn't feel like it," Sherlock shrugged. "They have to learn how to collect evidence by themselves one day. I'm assuming more of a 'hands-off' approach."

“That’s an interesting way to put it,” his brother smiled in a very reptilian sort of way. “I’ve been reliably informed that you’ve actually started to be rather _hands-on_ recently.”

_Oh, shit._

“And what has given you _that_ impression, brother?” he asked loftily, striding towards the kitchen to put the kettle on, looking for any task, to give his hands something to do.

To make them stop shaking.

“Double heat signature, tripled water bill, sudden change in your grocery spending profile, near complete isolation from the police officers, whom you used to hound for cases… sudden changes in behaviour may lead one to suspect you started partaking in your favourite recreational substance again… what was it the last time?”

He gritted his teeth.

“You know perfectly well it was cocaine and why I took it. Don’t worry, I’m keeping clean and you don’t risk the embarrassment of having to forcibly commit your brother to rehab again. Now, since you have admitted that you are tracking my purchases - done from my own card and my own account - and house bills, what else do you want to know? Maybe you should plug in to the sewage system, to track what gets flushed down the drain, too?”

“Your attempt at redirecting the conversation towards my breach of your privacy was noted, deemed ‘lightly entertaining’ and dismissed. What I _do_ wish is to meet your flatmate, doctor Watson, in person.”

Sherlock took a shuddering breath, for once uncertain what to say in the face of his older brother’s inquisitiveness. Had it been only about himself, he would have happily denied Mycroft’s request for a privacy breach, since he could and would defend himself.

John, however, had no such luck. John would be staying at home, alone and vulnerable, should Mycroft send his people in when Sherlock left for any reason. John would be there, easy to be taken away and never heard from again, if the British Government decided he was a worthy object of scientific research.

“I’ll ask him,” he prevaricated. “He… he isn’t well, Mycroft. Just came out of a nasty bout of flu. He may not be up to meeting people.”

“Very well,” his imperious sibling nodded slowly. “I’ll wait. Please impress upon doctor Watson that it is of vital importance for me to see, with my own eyes, that he is well.”

_Yeah, you will see him. As much as you can, at least. Wonder what you will make of him, dear brother._

He climbed the stairs and knocked softly on the door.

“John? Mycroft is downstairs and I’m afraid the game is up… he knows there is someone else living here.”

_what does he want_

“He… he is being a pest. He says he wants to see you.”

 _good luck with that_ , John snorted.

“Can I bring him upstairs to… to see for himself? I can tell him to piss off, but I’m not sure he won’t try to come back when I’m out.”

_ok fine just stay in the room and bring the notepad i left it downstairs_

“For whatever it’s worth, I’m sorry for everything my brother is going to say.”

_no worries one day i will introduce you to my sister we_ _’ll be equal then_

“Was that a threat?”

_just call him to come here and let_ _’s be done with this_

  
#

 

It was with a certain measure of satisfaction that Sherlock observed Mycroft's reaction to John. Or rather, lack of John.

"It is a very low kind of joke, Sherlock."

_tell him it is no joke and to bloody get on with whatever it is that he wants to say_

"He wants you to hurry up," Sherlock summed up with an eyeroll. "Yes, he is here, right there, on the bed. I can see him - well, not entirely, but I have an idea where he is."

Mycroft sniffed.

"John, as he can't hear you, any suggestions?"

_give him one of my earlier notes and we will see if he can read it_

Mycroft frowned at the piece of paper handed to him.

"Buy the milk," he read slowly and turned the sheet, checking the other side. "Don't forget about honey."

Well. That changed things.

Sherlock sniffed and nodded at John, who was sitting cross-legged on his bed and watching them with his head cocked to the side.

"OK, so you can read what he wrote. That's hopeful," Sherlock smiled at the frown on his brother's face. "We've established that there are people who can't notice him at all - his old landlord forgot the flat was rented, tried to explain that no forwarding address is needed as there was no such person living there. Nobody can see him on the street, either. Stamford... Stamford sees something. I see an outline and I can hear him. We hadn't managed to work out specific dependency, yet."

"I'm still not sure you aren't playing some elaborate hoax, Sherlock," his older brother began. "It seems as if you've actually started using again."

John winced.

And flickered.

Mycroft swore - interesting experience, for its rarity - and fell off the chair he had appropriated when he had entered the tiny room.

"Yep-p," Sherlock nodded. "Doctor Watson, please meet my brother, Mycroft. Mycroft, this is John."

 

#

 

Mycroft was much more methodical and ruthless in his approach, once he regained the control over himself and made a valiant attempt at controlling the situation. He went, day by day, through John's movements after the first meeting with Mike - the last point at which they had a witness statement that John had been still visible. They checked John's phone and noted when the first symptoms of his texts not being read emerged.

"So, if I count correctly," Mycroft summarised pompously, "whatever it was, happened a little over a month ago."

 _Five weeks and two days, to be exact,_ John wrote. _On the twentieth I see the last conversation in my mobile that looks like an actual exchange and on the twenty-second I tried to drop off the envelope with the rent at the landlord's office but he didn't open when I knocked and then walked into me._

Sherlock looked at the fist tightly gripping the pencil, the outline of the wooden casing blurry.

_So I thought I would have to make a bank transfer, which I'm not a fan of. But it went through and I felt I was... I was not really non-existent. It was just people who couldn't see me._

John paused and rubbed his eyes.

_Then I tried interacting with people, but everyone was in a hurry, shopping, work before vacation, and I..._

John disappeared before Christmas.

His last exchange over the text was a message from his therapist that she would have to cancel their meeting on the twenty-third as she had family obligations to attend to.

 _It felt weird,_ John wrote suddenly. _As if I was at the same time elated that she won't be pestering me to adjust to civilian life but at the same time I felt like the last person that somehow paid attention to me slipped away. She just... just ditched me. She didn't need the hours with me for anything, even to get paid. She had a set monthly payment from the army, whatever happened. It is to make sure she got paid even if I fluked out, but it was also very neat for her..._

"Well then," Mycroft cleared his throat. "What would you say to being employed by the government, doctor Watson?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More Mycroft.  
> Some tests and experiments.  
> Also, cuddling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're nearing the end, but instead of going for a large long chapter today evening, I'm posting this. It felt like a nice place to stop for now ;)

John was not interested in a government job, thank you very much. Not at all. Nope.

Mycroft acquiesced that any proposition would have to wait until he regained his full mobility. The cane was, after all, a definite obstacle to any kind of active duty.

John just snorted and Sherlock passed that information on to Mycroft gleefully.

"You really can hear doctor Watson? It's not just the meaning of the words, but you hear sounds?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and nodded.

"He said he had been answering me aloud out of reflex even when I wasn't really expecting any reaction all that time. Suddenly, when I was deducing how he got his wound, he commented and I just heard him. There was one morning when we couldn't communicate for a few hours, but it was only once."

Mycroft's steepled fingers were starting to get on Sherlock's nerves.

"Was there anything specific that had preceded the episode of silence?"

He looked up at John, who had faded into the background again.

"It was a panic attack, I suppose," he answered slowly, waiting for John to protest, but the apparition only shrugged. “John had a nightmare, woke up and I could not hear him for a few hours.”

Mycroft bit into his lip, uncharacteristically thoughtful.

“If we were doing research in specific laboratory conditions, I would have many suggestions as to tests that could be performed,” he paused when John winced so violently that the blankets moved. “But I will not. And I will not try to convince you to undergo any, unless…”

“Mycroft!”

“...unless either you or my brother detect any specific, life-threatening symptoms. I will expect you two to report if something suspicious happens. To _either_ of you. I’m assuming you have tested doctor Watson’s blood for basic parameters, Sherlock…”

He nodded and John heaved a sigh.

_i could use some mineral supplements and additional vitamin d i suppose_

“Why would you need… ah, sunlight.”

Mycroft frowned.

“Vit D? It should be available over the counter in any pharmacy, I’d wager.”

_big doses i think the deficiency may be quite pronounced by now even these few weeks may have done some damage_

“We’ll do the tests, but let’s get you the bigger dose anyway… I’ll ask Stamford to write a prescription.”

_good thank you sherlock_

“No need to bother doctor Stamford. I will have Anthea deliver you some. This won't put you on any new list for suspicious purchases."

 _Thank you, Mr Holmes,_ John wrote. _I wouldn't wish to be a problem._

"You, doctor Watson, are a puzzle and a challenge. When you become a problem, I will let you know," Mycroft nodded towards where John had gathered the blankets around himself, creating a small, human-shaped bundle. "However..." he rubbed his eyes. Mycroft had to be actually rather tired to allow himself such a display of weakness. "However I would like to better understand the nature of your affliction. To work out what are the differences between people who actually notice you by themselves, like Sherlock and doctor Stamford, and others. There seems to be a pattern, but not everything fits..."

_Mike can't hear me. Only Sherlock can - at least as far as I know. I_

He paused, pencil raised, and made an undecided gesture.

_I don't know why. Or how. I just want to stop this._

_I need to_

_I can't just_

John was getting visibly frustrated.

_I'm useless like this._

_Broken, all broken._

He dropped the pencil and sighed.

_i sit here and im safe but im still useless but i cant do anything unless im visible so i can only stay inside and_

"John," he caught one of the angrily tense fists. "We will work it out. I will work it out and you _will_ help me. Because that's a diagnosis. You are a doctor, you diagnose things. I'm a detective, I find things out. We just need time. As long as you aren't _dying_ because of this, we have to research this carefully, write down all the points, all the facts. You are the one who knows what happened when..."

"Sherlock?" his brother sounded suspiciously shaky. "Sherlock, raise your hand."

_Oh._

John looked up at Mycroft in suspicion.

"Here," the long finger poked at the thumb on John's fist. "I can see it, right here. A distortion of light, akin to an effect of very thick but well-made glass. Thumb. Fingers. Wrist."

He was blinking, looking up and down John's upper body as if he was trying to force his subconscious mind to cooperate.

"I see," he nodded slowly. "I can see you now, but only after Sherlock touched you. I... I _expected_ you to be there, where he touched, and you were there. And now that I _know_ what the effect looks like, I know you are there even though you two are not touching anymore."

_that's new_

"Yep," he confirmed, still watching his brother as he squinted and looked at the man on the bed from different angles. "Very new."

"I propose a test," his brother finally said, smiling slightly. "I think I know what happened right there. Doctor Watson, do you know any poetry? I don't mean to accuse you of actually _liking_ any, but something from your school years?"

John cocked his head to the side and shrugged.

 _Raven_ , he wrote simply.

"Well," Mycroft sniffed. "If we have to, we have to. Could you please start reciting it on my mark? I have a theory I'd like to test."

_What theory?_

His brother smiled wanly.

"One that can bring us closer to the solution. Now, the poem, please."

John rolled his eyes and started with the recitation, his voice quite clear in Sherlock's ears, if stiff and not really inflected.

_once upon a midnight dreary while i pondered weak and weary_

_over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore_

_while I nodded nearly napping suddenly there came a tapping_

_as of some one gently rapping rapping at my chamber door_

_tis some visitor I muttered tapping at my chamber door_

_only this and nothing more_

John paused.

 _More?_ he scribbled quickly.

Mycroft shook his head slowly.

"Start again, please," he requested, but his voice was soft and he closed his eyes, pressing them with fingers.

_once upon a midnight dreary while i pondered weak and weary_

_over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore_

_while I nodded nearly napping suddenly there came a tapping_

_as of some one gently_

"...rapping, rapping at my chamber door. “’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door— Only this and nothing more.”" Mycroft supplied quietly, his voice perfectly overlying what John was saying.

A silence reined for a few moments, but then John rose from the bed and reached out to Mycroft, catching his hand in both of his and squeezing it.

_you can hear me now?_

His brother nodded, slowly.

"But I think we need one or two more tests," he said cautiously. "Please, because I need to... Say something - recite something we would all know, but don't tell me what it is, don't write the title. Just... just start."

John sat back and brought his hands to his temples, rubbing them slightly.

_half a league half a league_

_half a league onward_

_all in the valley of death_

_rode the six hundred_

_forward the light brigade_

_charge for the guns he said_

_into the valley of death_

_rode the six hundred_

He stopped and looked at Mycroft curiously.

"More," his brother prompted breathlessly.

_forward the light brigade_

_was there a man dismayed_

_not though the soldier knew_

_someone had blundered_

"Theirs not to make reply,/Theirs not to reason why,/Theirs but to do and die./Into the valley of Death/Rode the six hundred," recited his brother without a pause. "I can hear you. Not only what I expected, but also something unprompted. So your... your voice, this comes on somehow. When you were speaking to Sherlock, I didn't hear you, but once you started reciting the Raven, I knew what I was supposed to be hearing, and I heard it. You say doctor Stamford was expecting to see you when you met in the park?"

_yes i texted him beforehand and he was waiting on the bench_

"And now when Sherlock told me you were there, I couldn't ignore the fact, so I started... noticing you. Then Sherlock touched your hand, so I knew - now truly knew - where you were. And then the Raven..."

_but sherlock could hear me even if he wasnt expecting it_

Mycroft shot him a glance.

"I think we may safely assume that some of us are more given to flights of fancy..."

"Which means, he is not very much of an imaginative person, John."

_and yet he is the one who came up with the test sherlock_

"Well, I couldn't properly test any theory on my little sample of one. And, as you can see, I _am_ an anomaly."

_an anomaly who can hear an anomaly_

"Well then, what about one more?" Mycroft suggested tiredly. "Something... I will turn away, just in case I get prompted by any movement, and you - you try to say something I wouldn't expect."

_anything?_

"Anything you can think of, just a bigger piece of text, so I can have a confirmation that... that this actually works."

Seeing Mycroft so uncommonly unbalanced should have provided Sherlock with more amusement, but it was also uncommonly unsettling. His older brother was supposed to make a few remarks, patronise them, threaten them with his agents and not...

_This._

Mycroft picked up the chair and turned his back to John, carefully closing his eyes for good measure.

_twas brillig and the slithy toves_

_did gyre and gimble in the wabe_

_all mimsy were the borogoves_

_and the mome raths outgrabe_

"Very well, I give up, _what the hell was that_?!"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow while John seemed to be chortling with joy - hah, pun! - at Mycroft's reaction.

"So you definitely heard him, unprompted and unwarned?"

"Yes, but I'm still not sure _what_ it was that I've heard!"

 _alice in wonderland mycroft_ , John shrugged. _couldnt think about anything more absurd_

"Well you definitely managed to get _that_ part right," Mycroft shook his head and rose. "I think we've all had enough experimentation for today," he quipped weakly, but it was obvious a migraine had finally caught up to him and Sherlock refrained from needling him about it in John's presence. "I will send Anthea by with the supplements and the vitamins. Sherlock, notify me at any time, should the status change. Doctor Watson, you will find my number added to your mobile, in case of an emergency. Good day to you, gentlemen."

They sat in silence as they listened to him slowly walking down the stairs.

"Oh! And, Sherlock? Do tell Mrs Hudson and try to explain the situation to her. It may be of use at some point."

"Piss off, brother," Sherlock murmured with half of his usual dose of venom.

_be nice to your brother he worries about you_

_he came up here to check if you were going mad or maybe living with someone who abuses you_

"And then he promptly tried to hire you for his MI5 work!"

_well nice to feel appreciated_

_but anyway i wouldnt_

_i cant do any job until i somehow get this resolved_

_why am i like this_

_will this stay_

_will i pop back on one day_

They sat in silence for a moment, until John flopped backwards, stretching flat on the bed.

"John?"

_hm_

"If you... if you, as you say, pop back on one day, what will you do?"

_a snort_

_first i would go and get a proper physical because we have no idea what this did to me xrays and stuff anything i can think of_

_second i would go for a walk like in full daylight and try not to worry that someone would walk into me_

_shave safely_

_do some shopping_

_take my medical board exam if i can_

_god ill have to cram for it_

_then id have to look for work probably some place that needs a gp_

_because surgery_

He fell silent.

"John?"

A shrug.

_cant do surgery with my hand_

"But... physical therapy?"

His hand was again pressed to John's shoulder.

_this there is nerve damage my hand shakes_

_you cant feel it normally but it shakes and i cant risk patients like this_

"So what will you do? Be a GP in a little clinic?"

He felt the shoulder shrug minutely.

_what else can i do nobody will take a doctor who cant operate_

A pause.

_i wouldnt even be able to do autopsy reliably so being a medical examiner is off the list_

Sherlock inhaled slowly.

"What... did you ever think about... I mean, now you live here, but once you have more social needs..."

_oh_

John turned away.

_i suppose id have to move out wouldnt i_

_i can move out earlier i think mike may be able to put me up for a few nights if im a bother im so sorry i never wanted imposition_

"No, John," he reached out and grasped the invisible shoulders. "No. I just... I meant that maybe you would need some less... less weird place."

The tense body under his hands melted back, right into him.

_why would i want some other place if you are here_

_you know me you see me_

Sherlock swallowed.

"I see you," he murmured into the warm, alive, soft skin. "I see you."

 

#

 

He slowly awoke, the birds outside - probably some kind of corvids - making an unseemly noise at the entirely ugly hour of the morning.

He slowly awoke to the warmth of John's body, the weight of John's head on Sherlock's shoulder, John's leg thrown over the two of his.

He slowly awoke to the feeling of unusual contentedness that perfused his entire person.

The reason for all these feelings was sleeping quietly in his bed - the one into which Sherlock had been invited and had spent so much time in - so Sherlock replaced himself with one of the pillows - John made a disappointed sound - and stealthily stole into the kitchen.

Pancakes.

Pancakes were easy, pure organic chemistry and some physics. Mostly chemistry.

Fifteen minutes later there was a lot of organic chemistry splattered all around the kitchen, as Sherlock learnt that one doesn't lift the mixer out of the bowl before turning off the engine and, also, that pancake batter was very prone to, well, splattering.

Fifteen seconds later the decor was enhanced with some biology.

In red.

Because Sherlock slipped - on a patch of batter - and dropped the glass he had been using to measure the flour.

And then promptly stepped on it.

Under any other, more normal circumstances, he would have hobbled to the bathroom, put the injured limb under the spray of water, picked out the glass stuck in it and then bandaged it once he was sure it was reasonably clean.

Unfortunately, batter.

Slippery, gooey pancake batter.

He sat there, trying to catch his breath after the second attempt at getting around the mess one-legged (one that had ended with an almighty crash to the floor) and eyeing the kitchen sink with hope, when someone caught his foot and held it immobile.

A wet towel was applied, removing the layer of the flour and milk mix and soon a basin filled with clear water was placed in front of him and John was washing off the combination of blood and food from his skin, picking out pieces of glass with his deft fingers of a surgeon.

Deft, visible and very stable fingers.

"You are still tanned," he managed to say. "How are you still tanned?"

"Well, how are _you_ still alive?" an unfamiliar - familiar - strange? voice said querulously. "I mean, quite seriously, Sherlock, how on earth did you survive until adulthood without offing yourself by an accident...!?"

"You're speaking," Sherlock could not get over the basic level of obvious observations. "I can hear you."

"You've heard me before," John remarked angrily and pulled another sliver of glass from his sole. "Shit, that one was big. OK, I'm pretty sure I got all of them..."

"Yes, but I told you, it was like a radio, far away, rather flat and kind of mechanical."

"Oh," the doctor frowned, drying off the freshly cleaned foot. "And now?"

"Now I can properly hear you. Accent and all. You just sound like a normal person, speaking like everyone else. I can hear the intonation, the way you ask a question..."

"Well, that's useful, I suppose."

"I can also see you."

 

#

 

During the day, John gradually faded again. The peak from the morning was not repeated during the day, no matter what they tried.

And tried.

And failed to bring the feeling back again.

But at least Sherlock had that half day.

Half a day with nearly-visible John Watson, listening to his real voice, watching his real smile - a thin, shy smile that soon blossomed into a wide, self-assured one.

As they sat on the couch, he first noticed that John was becoming less and less opaque. Then his voice flattened. Not as much as before, but still it lacked certain characteristics of a living sound.

"I'm afraid it's... not staying," he murmured softly as John leaned closer.

"Well," his flatmate cleared his throat. _At least we've had a nice day._

"I hope you... You'll be visible again..."

_I just hope it won't happen because of you slicing your hand open with the bread knife._

"What about a small kitchen fire?"

_Sherlock!_

 

####

 

The next morning was just like the four previous morning with John had been. He woke up, he reassured himself that it was, in fact, really happening, he checked again and reassured himself again.

There was a man, living in his flat.

A man willing to share a bed with him. Cuddling.

A man who apparently liked him well enough to cuddle with him in some rather shameless positions.

A man who, despite having no logical reason for it whatsoever and against normal societal expectations, progressed from being a complete stranger to whatever it was they were, sleeping together like kittens seeking warmth.

The difference between this morning and all others was that now he _knew_ what the man he was sleeping with looked like. He had seen the blue eyes - smiling, flirting, looking at him in honest awe. The blond hair, slightly unkempt from the weeks of being only haphazardly brushed, the reddish beard (John got rid of _that_ the minute he was free to do it), the wrinkles and the frown lines.

There was a lot he could say about John's build, but as most of it would have meant waxing poetic about another man's abs and musculature and beautiful, talented hands - hands that did not tremble! - he stayed quiet, recording and turning over every tiniest detail in his memory, storing them for the days when they won't be able to bring John to better visibility and Sherlock would need his perfect recall to see John's face yet again.

He inhaled John's scent. Mostly bed - freshly washed sheets - and a bit of sweat due to warmth and close proximity in which the two had slept. His hands went around John's waist and pulled him closer, cautiously molding himself against the invisible - but very much present - back.

John mumbled something, wriggled in place for a moment and pushed himself even closer to Sherlock's body, settling only when his pyjama-clad bum was flush with Sherlock's lap.

"Uh."

 _Go to sleep, you nervous madman,_ John admonished. _I'm very comfortable like this, thank you very much. You are warm and nice._

"How did it all happen?" he blurted into the soft skin of John's neck. "How did we get from... from two weeks ago to... to this?"

The chest under his hands expanded when John sighed.

 _I'm not sure,_ the doctor paused. _Was it really only two weeks?_

"Well you moved in on the thirteenth and today is twenty-ninth. Sixteen days."

 _It kind of... got away from me,_ John moved - rubbed his face. _I think I might have lost a few days during the holidays, I've spent them asleep or... or something. Mike texted me after the New Year and then... then we met, a few days later. It's probably on my phone. I think it was Wednesday. Yes, Wednesday._

"The sixth," Sherlock suggested with a small happy shiver.

_Most probably, yes. Why?_

"Happy birthday to me," he giggled helplessly.

John's movements stilled.

_What?_

"My birthday was on Wednesday, January the sixth. A week later Mike brought you over to the lab. That fits."

_Oh._

"So. Happy birthday to me."

_Happy birthday to you, Sherlock Holmes._


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cuddling. Conversation. Crime.  
> Lestrade.   
> Lauriston Gardens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning: This chapter marks the beginning of more angsty section. If you wish to wait until this is resolved, wait for chapter 8 to be published.**  
>  I'm sorry, but it's one of the cases of "characters did something and I couldn't stop them". They just went and did that.

There was something unreal about the whole day they had. Sherlock was hobbling around whenever he could, mostly against John's orders; John was cooking something he had chased Sherlock away from - but the smell was rather delightful - and all in all it seemed as if the world outside had ceased to exist. Only the delivery of John's meds - Anthea looked about as excited about it as she had ever done, but she _did_ take a long look at the interior of the room - broke up the monotony.

It was _good_. Unrealistically good. It was better than he would have ever expected of a day spent simply indoors, with one person, pursuing a not very exciting experiment with John's blood, mostly for confirmation of their previous findings.

 _I thought there was nothing new to be found there,_ the doctor remarked as he passed by, handing Sherlock a bowl of stew. _I wonder why we can't catch it at the stage when it's invisible._

"It seems that some things are differently affected by the... that thing," he murmured distractedly. "Your blood, hair and skin samples are _immediately_ visible once separated from you. Your jacket took half a minute to reappear. Your shoes, once you take them off, show up after two minutes or so. Things you are only holding, like kitchen implements or the paper, don't disappear at all...! And how, how, _how is this happening_ , how come your eyes are invisible and yet you can still _see_ , how is your brain working when photons and everything else go straight through it, how can you eat and how can the food disappear immediately in your mouth...!" he clapped his hand over his lips for that last admission, but John was already laughing like a madman.

_Oh, I knew you were watching! I was so sure you'd be curious how it would work, if you could see the food as I chewed it and digested it!_

"I certainly did _not_ ," he tried to sound offended, but the hilarity, so clear in John's almost-live voice was rather annoyingly charming and he couldn't keep it up. "I'm a scientist!" he exclaimed at last. "How could I _not_ try to see it? It was... it was not idle _curiosity_ , it was a valid observation to make on the specific case of a specific invisible individual...!"

"I knew it," John smiled at him. "You were looking at me much too intently for just normal dinner conversation, but I was mostly suspecting - at the time - that you were looking at something behind me... Only later I worked out what you were looking at my stomach, apparently counting on some interesting observations to be made... What?" he frowned at the startled detective.

"I can hear you," Sherlock informed him mildly. "Full sound, like a standard person."

"O-oh," John looked down. "Do you see something more?"

Sherlock squinted and looked carefully.

"The outline may be sharper," he said slowly. "But it's too dim here to decide. Well then, let's see if this stays or..." he half-smiled.

"Mhm. I'll write it down in my log," John stretched. "Tell me the moment you notice me fading. Maybe it's related to time or..."

"What log?"

"Well, after we spoke to Mycroft, I decided to start keeping a little log book, to mark significant changes in visibility. You telling me you can hear me better - that's also one for the log."

"Oh. Very well. I didn't expect you to go... this analytically about this."

"What else can I do?" John shrugged. "Mycroft's questions made me think, you know. And you said it yourself - I _am_ a doctor. What I have is some kind of a condition - not sure if medical, magical or... whatever it is. I've never heard about it, anyway, so I have to focus and keep the observations precise and as detailed as possible. I'm writing down every single thing that may be somehow, remotely even, related to this... feeling of being _not_ part of the general society. When..." he frowned and shrugged. "Well, after Harry wrote that she had some plans for Christmas and I was, _of course_ , welcome to come and crash on her couch and then..."

"Then your therapist cancelled on you - by the way, you could probably sue her for unprofessional conduct - and then everyone around you was just focused on themselves..."

 _Yeah,_ John rubbed his eyes. _That felt like... like a door slammed into my face._

"The sound has changed again," Sherlock cocked his head. "Did simply talking about it made you _feel_ it, too?"

His friend shrugged and sank lower on the couch.

 _I think I'll take a nap,_ he sighed. _Just don't blow anything up in the meanwhile, please._

Sherlock left him to it, having anyway to check upon an investigation of Lestrade's he had been following for some time - making his own observations on each of the reported 'suicides' and trying to not bite his nails to the quick at the way the detectives involved bungled one case after the other. It had given him already a fabulous occasion to make use of the nifty piece of software one of his hacker friends - well, friends... - had put together for him - one that sniffed out the exact list of mobile numbers connected to a BTS and correlated it with a specific list of numbers, which in turn allowed the user to text a bunch of persons in one location. Making the correlation from the BTS nearest to the NSY conference room and the public listing of journalists' mobiles was child's play. Adding Sally and Lestrade to the list for spamming was just nasty, yet oddly satisfying. The effect had been startling to the journalists and police alike, but no result had been achieved.

_Yet._

Lestrade would come. Sooner or later...

A bell downstairs.

Sooner then.

He heard John's startled sigh from the sofa.

"Lestrade is coming to talk to me," he informed the soldier hastily. Don't worry, he will not be staying long."

A barely audible "hmm" reached him just before a strong knock was followed by an attempt to open the door.

"Sherlock! Your landlady said..."

He unlocked the door and threw it open.

"...you were up here for days..."

"Yes," he said simply. "What is different this time?"

"How did you know I came here because..."

"You don't make social calls, Lestrade. Now, the victim. What is different?"

The policeman grimaced.

"You know how they never leave notes? This one did."

_Yes!_

 

#

 

He managed to get Lestrade to leave, promising him to follow immediately, but decided to check on John before.

The sofa was empty, the blanket spread evenly over the backrest, but there was a sound of shuffling coming from the kitchen.

"Sorry we woke you," he sighed. "Lestrade was in a hurry."

_No worries. I had to get up at some point, or I'd have headache later on. It comes when I get my sleeping cycle out of whack._

Sherlock bit his lip.

"Would you like to come with? A bit of excitement? Get some air?"

_I would be in the way._

"No, I'd... I'd make sure nothing would happen. And I could use your help, you know. You are a doctor, after all, and you could have some insight into what the idiots from the Scotland Yard are missing."

_Oh, well. Just let me dress and give me a minute or two._

"Sure. We'll take a cab, so you won't have to come into contact with anyone..."

_Well, let's just hope the cabbie doesn't get too suspicious of you when you hold the door open for me._

Sherlock frowned.

"I think we can pull this off. And your help at the scene would be incredibly important. You can look at people I will not be able to watch and tell me what you see - and I hope for some of your medical expertise..."

_Right, right. I'll see what I can do. You know I'm not a medical examiner, don't you. I mostly helped save the living ones._

"Come on, John," he nodded to the door. "We need to see what they have, first."

 

#

 

The cabbie didn't notice a thing - or at least if he did, he was too bored with life in general to even remark on a weird passenger who held the door open as if letting in (and out) a ghost. Sally Donovan, intent to insult him as always, gave him a perfect opportunity to let John in, as he stood there, holding the tape up and exchanging excessively impolite remarks with her.

On one hand, it gave him the opportunity to let John in without getting noticed, on the other... Being called 'Freak' by Sally was something he was quite used to, but he would have very gladly avoided exposing John to her vitriol and her skewed view of Sherlock's person. He escaped her gladly, making sure John had joined him and was following, despite having to use his cane.

It became significantly harder the closer they got to the scene, but his manner of walking cleared a corridor of empty space in which he moved and where John trailed behind him like a small boat in the wake of a big steamroller.

"Fourth floor," one of the technicians directed him and up they went, scaling stairs of an old, long-past-its-prime building of many flats, dusty windows and suspicious-looking corridors. The flat and the room in question were easy to find and again Sherlock applied the magic of striding through the crowd and towing John - invisibly - behind himself, until they got to the room where Lestrade was looking helplessly as - even more helplessly - Anderson tried to work something out from the clues laid out in front of him.

"I can give you two minutes," Lestrade said, frowning at their - his - entrance. "Name's Jennifer Wilson, going by her credit cards. We hope the banks will cough up some contact details. She hasn't been here long..." he looked over at Sherlock, who was bowing over the woman. "Some kids found her."

He stopped listening to the DI the moment he spotted the woman stretched out in front of them.

 _Rache_ , John supplied hesitantly. _Looks like she did it with her fingernails._

Indeed, two of them were badly chipped and there were slivers of wood stuck underneath from where the woman had scratched the floor, leaving her last message to the world.

"The same as the others? No marks, no fingerprints?"

"No sign of anyone else here at all," Anderson sneered. "Now, surprise us with your brillance, will you? I simply can't _wait_ for your revelations."

 _In short, asphyxiation. She's choked on her own vomit,_ John said worriedly. _Poison is my guess, might be drugs. No smell of alcohol or signs of violence._

While his friend mused on the manner of the woman's demise, Sherlock took to checking her clothing. She had obviously been through some inclement weather, windy _and_ rainy, going by her coat - and an atrocious shade of pink it was, too - and she had some aim with which she came to London... the visible, obviously displayed hands - she wasn't curled up, she had been trying to write, but what else...?

"Unhappily married. Band of style that was in fashion over a decade ago," he pulled the wedding ring off. "Serial adulterer," he added with distaste.

"Someone wanted a revenge on her then. Maybe someone whose partner she slept with..." Anderson trailed off as Sherlock looked up at him.

"Then you should warn Sally to be on guard from your wife," he remarked lightly. "What the hell tells you it is a revenge?"

"She's German, _rache_ is German for 'revenge'. Obvious."

 _The poison must be fast-acting, but not immediate. If she had time to scratch that much before she was too weak..._ John trailed off.

"Obvious nonsense," Sherlock grunted towards John, who was still kneeling by the woman's body. "She's nothing of a kind. She is from out of town, but it's..." he pulled out his mobile and checked for weather reports. "She's from Cardiff."

"Sherlock, two minutes," Lestrade demanded testily. "You keep mumbling something and I need solid results."

He straightened, frowning. There was something about it... Something he was missing...

"Victim is, for one, definitely _not_ German. More likely Welsh. Travelled from Cardiff today, light luggage, one small case. Going by the eye-watering shade of pink, she must be working in the media, only they promote this kind of saturation in everyday clothes. The pattern of moisture on her coat tells me she had walked in a rain and wind today - that's why she is wet but her umbrella is dry - look at the state of her hair... But where is her case?"

"There is no suitcase," Lestrade grunted.

"There _has_ to be a case. She must have been planning to change at her hotel, before visiting one of her lovers - she has several," he had a closer look on the wedding band to confirm his findings.

"Consecutively?" Lestrade sounded winded. Ah, he made a connection to his own wife. Wasn't planned, Sherlock wasn't going to retract his words.

"Probably. Very tight schedule, I suppose."

 _Wonder how she kept them all straight_ , John quipped darkly. _Maybe she mixed two of them up and the bloke got angry at her..._

"She had to take off her wedding ring on regular basis, you will see that the interior is more worn out than the exterior, and also the ring is significantly flattened, deformed into an oval by now."

 _Brilliant,_ John whispered, as if there was a risk of Lestrade hearing him.

He wanted to ask "do you really mean it" or "you did hear they had called me a Freak, right?", but refrained, forcibly, simply nodding and smiling, probably looking like a moron to the rest of the world. But no matter, keeping contact with John was what was important.

"See, here," he pointed to the woman's leg, both for Lestrade's information and for John's edification. "Pattern of mud, walked with the case dragged right by her leg, which tells us it's not a big one, most probably an upright little cabin-size piece. One or two days, three tops if she was a good packer."

"There is no case. There was no sign of a case here whatsoever," the DI insisted.

"Nowhere in the house?" Sherlock straightened, struck by a thought. If there was no case, and she had definitely _had_ a case before, where would it be now...?

As he voiced his thoughts, John touched his hand.

 _She could have checked in to a hotel_ , he suggested, but Sherlock could only shake his head.

No way a professional had left the hotel in that state. The hair...!

So, no suitcase. No suitcase _here_ , so where _would_ the case be...?

He had to find it. It had to be somewhere... Close. Very close, because the person who drove her here, they still had it - or had it when they were leaving.

"It's a murderer, Lestrade. Definitely a murderer. A serial murderer. She had been forced to take the poison, that's why there are no signs of anyone else, but the murderer slipped, they always do at the end...!"

He jumped up, running downstairs, checking the side door on the way, just in case - after all, the police, being alarmingly stupid, could have missed something _that_ obvious...

"What do you mean, he slipped?!" Lestrade shouted from the top of the stairs. "Sherlock!"

He couldn't contain his excitement.

"Pink!" he shouted back, not looking up, intent on his search. "Look at her! Pink!"

He had to hurry. No way to tell when the nearby bins would be emptied and if he didn't manage to get to the case first, all the evidence he could gather from it would be lost forever! Next skip was barely half a street away, he had to check it.

Now.

No matter what.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and next chapter will not be much better. Sorry.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John. All John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, angst warning. Simply because it's John's side.

He remembered being the centre of attention. In the middle of a surgery, everyone watched him, everyone depended on him, everyone was helping him. They were, together, ensuring a successful outcome of a shared activity.

He breathed it. He lived it. He drank it in.

Then came the army and the focus changed, but not the intensity. His people depended on him, on his stability, on his skills, on his steadfastness, on the self-assuredness in which he made his decisions.

Every day, every hour, every minute.

And then it stopped.

It was a hit, a pain, a moment of mind-blinding certainty.

He was going to die there. Right there, on that foreign soil, far away from all places that he loved. Far from London, from his own little town barely half an hour of a ride from the big city. Far from the school where he had made so many friends. Far from his sister, who had just got a divorce and would probably hit the bottle even harder. Far from the scant number of friends he had retained contact with during his basic training months.

Far from anything really worth living.

They would put him on a plane and then get him to a hospital or a mortuary and then they'd cremate him and put him in a box and give that box to Harry. Harry, who wouldn't be able to understand how she had let him go to war a whole man and all she gets back is a box of ashes.

He slowly, slowly, slid down, trying not to get too much blood on the young soldier's uniform, but the boy - nearly a boy! - in front of him was already still and silent.

So he bowed forward and gave in.

The hospital later on was one long nightmare. He felt as if he was surrounded by thick glass that didn't allow him to speak, to explain, to demand that they stop patient-talking to him and start telling him numbers, statistics, percentages, hard diagnoses.

Names of bacteria.

He couldn't tell them that his shoulder ached so much that he wanted to scratch the skin off to see what was inside. His words got tied up, knotted and weird as his fever progressed and he stayed silent, counting on someone who would remember him, because he deserved it, didn't he? He had been good, he didn't shout at people, not like the other patients who screamed at the nurses and cried in the middle of the night.

He never cried aloud. He lay there, silent and forgotten, tears slowly leaking from the corners of his eyes, until the pain was so bad that he told himself sternly that this wasn't his body, it was a mistake. He got someone else's body and he was supposed to be in his own, healthy and whole, but this one, it wasn't his. It didn't fit. This pain in the shoulder wasn't his, the slowly growing infection wasn't his, the ache in the hip wasn't his. He wasn't there. He was somewhere else, but his own body got lost, because if he _had_ been there, they would have seen him and helped him, wouldn't they?

He never knew how many days he had spent just waiting, while the infection ate at his body. The records from the hospital said one thing, the nurse said a different thing and Murray, who had visited him on his first possible day off, well, Murray said a lot of things, most of them very much not to be repeated in proper company.

The nurses had been unhappy about the visit and even less happy when Lt Murray, 6'7 or pure muscle and a nursing degree, barrelled into their station demanding a doctor to attend someone immediately. They were almost sure there was nobody on the last bed, until one of them, in an attempt to appease Murray, accompanied him and saw John there, feverish, with his arm covered with red streaks, and sounded the alarm.

 _That_ got everyone's attention, but by then it was too late.

Bill Murray might have saved his life, because the infection hadn't had time to travel too far and didn't get to John's heart, but the neural damage was done. The primary wound would have healed very well and, with sufficient PT, John could have gone back to the front and served in the hospital for the rest of his tour. Now he was a broken man, not a soldier or a surgeon anymore, prone to going from quiet introspective sadness straight to anger, which made the psychiatrist on site write him a long list of medicines to be taken and got him appointment with Army-paid therapist.

The hospital staff never even acknowledged that they had ignored a wounded soldier, and, what was even more egregious, one of their own, a doctor. He had never heard a word of apology or admission that they should have listened when he had asked, at the beginning, for more tests. One of the nurses even dared to say - in his hearing, because by that time they didn't care about it that much - "How is it possible that a doctor didn't recognise an infection and didn't make the staff aware?" to which Murray growled something that sounded like "You had one job, to make him better, and you failed even that" but John couldn't be sure, because he was still very high on new painkillers. Good new painkillers.

He wished he could take enough of them to make everything finally go away.

But he survived and was transferred to yet another hospital, where he stayed for a blessedly short time before going back home. _Home_. As if.

Ever since he had landed back in England and found himself in the Army-assigned bedsit (minimum cost, minimum comfort, maximum isolation from people), he tried to find himself something to do. Something that would get him out of that flat and away from the nightmares that played every night on the backdrop of beige that covered every inch of his limited world.

And the therapist, the thrice-cursed therapist, who kept harping on him about adjusting to civilian life and understanding that he has changed irrevocably and finding new goals. Writing a blog. Of all the useless things. He never _read_ other peoples' blogs, because they were idiotic, inane little attention-grabbing things and people in that world seemed to become popular because they were popular, not because of something that they _did_. They weren't useful.

He was supposed to join that social group, the useless, prattling, idiotic group that said a lot about nothing.

He had to admit, he had a lot of nothing. Nothing, in beige, he would have titled the symphony about his life, if he knew how to write a symphony. He didn't, and neither did he know how to write a blog. There was nothing about his life that seemed worthy of putting to the page. Because what? Morning shower? Shaving? Number of pigeons he saw in the park? _Nothing_ happened to him with the power of a large waterfall. He was swimming in nothing. He was nothing. He, as himself, had no value, there was no product of his days that anyone was waiting for. There was no output from the hours he had spent staring at the laptop, but it didn't make any difference, because there was nobody out there waiting with baited breath to read what had been the day of a man who used to be a doctor.

Living through November and December in London was at the same time hard, boring, terrifying and depressing. The passing meeting with Mike had been a highlight of his fall days and he lived on that scant ray of hope for days - they had not really spoken about anything in particular, but Mike seemed honestly interested in him and worried in that human, personal way that nobody had shown since Bill had been sent back to front and had to leave him to the tender mercies of the hospital staff.

But as December marched on and the city around him became more and more festive, he found himself being more and more like an alien who had landed there from a different planet and is trying to understand these humans around him and their strange procedures.

Because there was no Christmas present for John Watson waiting anywhere. There was nobody who would be picking the wrapping paper and thinking 'Yeah, John will appreciate it' and wrapping the gift, however small it may be, thinking about the edges and proper angles of creases.

He knew there was nobody, because all he could think of was his sister who had met him once, a week after he came back, looked at him with large, unseeing eyes, drank her coffee (her hands shook a bit) and proceeded to push his mobile into his hands.

"I bought one of these prepaid sim thingies and charged it so that it stays OK for a year," she said nervously. "You won't have to bother with the bill or anything."

And he could probably treat it as an early Christmas present, too, because he didn't think Harry had any more time or attention to give to him. The bottle would have got a higher priority.

Which was confirmed very quickly when she had texted him her non-invitation to crash on her couch for the holidays.

He had spent an entire day in bed after that, his shoulder aching, his skin itching and his eyes leaking tears like a broken faucet.

He texted her back, saying it was OK, he hadn't been planing to surprise her with his presence. Because he hadn't. He had hoped for a proper invitation and a chance to catch up with her, maybe to somehow talk her out of that direction that her life had gone into, maybe point out that she had still something to live for. He could have felt a doctor, or a least a brother, for a few hours. Maybe a day.

He hadn't been planning to surprise her, no. Not at all.

The rest of the last two weeks of December was lost in the fog, forever. It was as if when he stopped being visible to people, the world around him faded into something fuzzy and unspecific, for him in return. He couldn't do shopping, because the shops confused him - the fog was there, too - and the people tried to trample him whenever he didn't make way, the cashiers ignored him and other customers tried to take over his self-checkout machine when he was in the middle of paying.

He was reduced to buying candy bars, crisps and biscuits from the vending machines. They never ignored him and if he found one in a secluded enough place, nobody would steal his freshly purchased food. It was some comfort, to know that he hadn't been forgotten by everything. It was just people who were broken. But machines didn't _need_ him, they just were there. Well, people didn't need him either - at this point, nobody needed him, as such. Nobody wanted him.

He curled up on his bed, trying not to think about all the movies about poor little puppies in the dog pound that were forgotten in the corner of their box and then nobody picked them, because there were so many other, cleaner, more lively puppies to be chosen.

He pulled the blanket over his head and slept through the New Year, hoping he would never have to wake up and live through another non-day again.

To his dismay, he had lived and continued to live, if one could properly call that _life_. He wasn't so sure anymore, considering that by that point he had found out he was, in fact, physically invisible even to himself. Institutions continued to see him (online banking had worked for him before Christmas, resolving the issue of the rent, and continued to function correctly still), people continued to ignore him, cats continued to ignore him in that pointed way that told him they really saw him but decided to ignore him nevertheless.

The meeting with Mike was something of a shock. Someone saw - well, not him, but communication from him. Someone paid attention. Someone made him feel _thought of_. It hurt, in a way, when Mike explained that it had been Harry who had sent him. How could Harry not see his texts, but at the same time be worried enough to actively dig up an old associate of his and ask for help? How did it work?

And then Mike found him someone. A madman who noticed him even though he had never known him before. It was...

Sherlock was something else.

Two terrible, crazy, wonderful weeks he had spent getting to know the man whose brain worked like no other on Earth. He even became visible for a few hours, who knew why, but he did.

Sherlock needed him. Sherlock appreciated him. Sherlock told him again and again that he wasn't going to forget him.

Until he did.

Until he ran away.

Until he left John there, alone, among the crowds of people who didn't see him.

Until he left John with four floors to be walked down and police officers all around him, with no way to get out safely and no way to call for help - the mobile was in Sherlock's coat pocket after all, as they decided to ensure that he would not be noticed.

He sat down in the corner of the room and watched as Lestrade tried to understand what Sherlock meant by his last pronouncements.

John tried to work out some way of getting out before they shut the door and left him inside with the marks of the crime scene all around the place the body of the pink-dressed woman had been taken away from.

Slowly, he let his head rest on his knees.

Sherlock was gone.

Sherlock had promised and John had trusted him, but now it was all gone.

The sounds were fading around him, slowly. The police proceedings were winding down. It was now or never, but he couldn't make himself stand up. It hurt too much. His head hurt and his leg was on fire and his shoulder was as bad as in the hospital. He couldn't make himself move, even if his life depended on it.

It probably did, too. If he didn't move, they would lock everything up and he would stay there forever, like another forgotten derelict of London, just one more forgotten thing in a forgotten building full of other things nobody loved or needed anymore.

The right place for someone like him, probably.

The forgotten box of forgotten puppies in the dog pound.

He tried to breathe slowly, not to hyperventilate, but his head was swimming in panic and his throat squeezed shut.

It had been hours - must have been hours - couldn't have been hours, because the people were still there.

His knees were wet with tears. He wasn't ashamed. There was nobody to see him there, after all. Nobody to tell him that big boys didn't cry. Nobody who cared, nobody who would feel the need to correct the way he was sitting or tell him to blow his nose and stop being a weakling. Nobody who cared enough even to hit him.

In a way, he would have welcomed a punch now. A punch meant someone knew you were there.

But there was nothing, a big bowl of nothing filled with cotton wool and he had to put his hands over his head and force his muscles to stop shivering in the cold and exhaustion, because he was chilled and hungry and tired and he knew there was nobody coming. Not this time.

he had trusted and the trust was broken and this was the end of the whole thing he was not getting out of this one there was no bill no mike no sherlock not anyone who would give a fuck about john watson

he was shaking which was good on one hand because it meant he was alive but god in heavens how he wished he could just stop shaking and stop breathing and stop everything because it hurt so much so much so much

he had it he had had a home and a person who liked him well enough and even seemed to need him sometimes and he had felt seen and heard and properly alive but it was taken away and that hurt even more than not ever having it would have hurt because now he knew what it was to be saved but he was lost lost lost again


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It gets better.  
> And then there is some Mycroft.  
> And maybe some shooting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised. It gets better now.

_cold and alone and hurt_

that hurt wasnt his hurt it wasnt his body it wasnt his

####

He felt faint as he rounded the corner on the stairs, looking into the small screen of a slowly loading device.

"OUT," he ordered, startling several of the last technicians in the building. "EVERYONE OUT!"

"Sherlock, you can't just..."

Oh, Lestrade. Well.

"Yes, I can," he grunted inelegantly. "I missed something. I need everyone to clear this floor."

"Is he high?" Anderson leaned closer. "What the hell is this?"

"None of your fucking business," Sherlock found himself growling and saw the man take a step back. "You want my help with this? You will leave, now."

"Well, it's not like we _want_ your help..." the technician began, but Lestrade quickly pulled him aside, murmuring something.

He scaled the last few steps, doing something he had not done since his time at the primary school. Praying. Ending with a heartfelt "Lord, help me now" as he pushed the door open.

"I'm sorry," he whispered into the empty room. "Just... give me a moment. This thing needs to boot up _again_."

####

he could just stop stop stop feeling

he could just stop

he could

####

He had never lived through worse an hour than that. He never _wanted_ to live through something like that ever again.

It had hurt, physically. That moment. That ugly, awful, terrible moment.

He had found the case, not right where he thought it would be, two blocks away, but still, he had found it. He had flagged a cab and got inside and...

And he held the door, for a moment.

Why would he be holding the door?

_John._

The realisation was like a knife to the abdomen. Well, probably, because the one time he had been stabbed it was in his calf and hadn't hurt half as much.

He had left John there.

With strangers.

Who wouldn't see him.

He had left John out there, in the cold, literally and figuratively, without a thought. Without a slightest twinge of conscience.

He just upped and left the man who had trusted him, the man who had gone through a war, an illness, the cruelty of society who didn't care and of family who didn't love him enough. The man who had trusted Mike, probably as the last resort - and Mike, in his infinite genius of a simply truly good man, had trusted Sherlock. Only they were all idiots, because Sherlock did not deserve that trust, that faith. Because Sherlock was incapable of being a proper, feeling human being.

The cab brought him to 221B before he managed to regain full control of himself. He gave the case barely a thought as he dragged it upstairs, left it by the door and flew back to the cab he had ordered to wait. He was back in the seat in seconds, again shouting - this time the address of the crime scene - and on the phone with his brother.

"Your agents, they used a body temperature scanner," he started without a preamble. "I need it."

"Well, hello, little brother," Mycroft sounded bored. "What happened? A rat got loose in your flat? It will eat something from your fridge and die by itself, don't worry."

"I..." he froze for a moment.

He couldn't admit it to Mycroft.

But it was the only way to find John if he had retreated to the stage he had been before.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft sounded honestly worried now. "I can send one of my agents - even Anthea - she will bring you the scanner, but you have to tell me what happened. Lauriston Gardens, yes? The crime scene? Do you think the killer is still there?"

He had to be in his office, to speak that freely.

"No, not the killer," Sherlock managed to utter. "Someone else."

"Sherlock."

"Yes! I've lost him, fine? I... I..."

"Breathe, Sherlock."

There was some additional sound in the background. Door slamming. Someone's steps. Mycroft ordering people around.

" _Breathe_ , little brother."

He tried. Tried, but the more he tried, the more the cold, sudden fright that overtook him and clawed at his throat paralysed him.

"In. Out. Sherlock, I can't be there right now, but you have to stop panicking. If you've lost track of John, the longer you take, the harder it will be to find him. You have to get a grip on yourself. You can't leave him there."

"What..." he whispered. "Why do you care?"

"I've read his files. Let's say, I'd rather not lose someone with his marksmanship results due to your absentmindedness."

"Mycroft...!"

"I think you should settle for this explanation, brother mine," the tired voice chided him. "You wouldn't like the other one, I think."

He thumbed the "end call" button angrily and tried some breathing exercises for a few minutes. They didn't help. At all.

####

people around him were still talking

there was something wrong with him

he had lost his body the good body he used to have

he had lost it someone had stolen it with his hands and his good leg

they had left this broken one and now he was broken

in this body

in this mind

####

"Mate, we're here," the cabbie interrupted. "That's sixty quid."

He threw some notes at the driver and scrambled out of the car, watching the space in front of the building anxiously.

Where could John be?

He closed his eyes and tried to track back their movements. They had been at the crime scene, on the top floor. All corridors and rooms full of people. He had had to force his way down, he had to... John would be still stuck up there. Unless...

"He hasn't left the building," Anthea informed him in a disinterested tone. _Fake_ disinterested, he noted. "It turns out there are some very specific sensors that do, after all, pick him up. When you two went in, the analog cameras that make most of the net here only picked up a shimmer and it is _only_ visible to Mr Holmes - we couldn't see anyone next to you. But, since some work is being done in nearby buildings, there is one that points directly at the entrance, from over there," she nodded to the office block vis-a-vis. "Newly installed, digital matrix, blah blah blah technical. In short, it picked him up. We downloaded the rest of the feed from the last hour, split it between people and they reviewed it in parallel, as I was getting here. There is no sign of him leaving at any point and there is no back exit. He is definitely still inside."

He nodded sharply, reaching for the sensor she was holding, but she didn't let it go.

"Just make sure that whatever that man is, he is not a danger to anyone," she rolled her eyes and opened her fingers. "If he decides to go into being an assassin or a bomber, I will hold you personally responsible for that."

He sighed and turned away. Her so-called sense of humour definitely needed a software upgrade. Mycroft should pay for better androids next time. Or, if she was in fact a human being, she needed vacation.

The scanner booted up slowly and he made his way through the chaos of technicians (bringing the evidence down to the vans and taking down photo equipment), to the entrance and upstairs. Upstairs, where people still milled around like headless chicken. Probably a headless chicken would have been a better crime scene technician than Anderson, if one could be found and pressed into doing police work.

At least it wouldn't flirt with Donovan.

####

cold

hurt

sleep

sleeping was good

he was still shivering but sleeping was good

when you sleep nobody can tell you bad things

when you sleep you are allowed to fly

when you sleep you can dream of not being

he shook, his hands shook and his shoulders tensed in pain

there was nobody coming

####

And now they were all downstairs, leaving him alone, just as he needed to be. It was just him and the scanner and the dejected-looking patch of warmth that the scanner had kindly located for him.

"John?" he called out softly.

The patch of warmth didn't move, but it was there, right in front of him, in the corner, so he stashed the scanner in his pocket, closed his eyes and reached out.

Wool. Had John put on his woollen jumper when they left? He probably had. Sherlock kicked himself for not paying attention.

Heavy canvas jacket. Threads coming loose. The canvas was poorly-dyed, faded black, frayed at the cuffs and at the collar. The suede patches on the elbows were still soft and strong. Maybe Mrs Hudson would have some solution for the way it was falling apart. John wouldn't allow Sherlock to buy him a new one, most probably, and if it was done underhandedly, he would be angry and unhappy. They couldn't have that.

Hair. John's overgrown, randomly combed hair. Blond going grey at the temples, prematurely silvering the wheat-yellow of his youth. Soft and thick and straight. They'd have to work out some way for John to have them cut to his preferred length. Maybe Mycroft knew a blind barber. He had to, considering that spies needed haircuts, too.

Neck. Warm. Well, not really, but warmer than his chilled fingertips. Pulse steady. Breath. Chest raising and falling slowly. Too slowly. Asleep? Catatonic?

####

sleep was good

sleeping meant warmth

you could dream what you wanted

dreams had no rules

his throat squeezed with silence

sleep

####

But alive.

He felt his mobile buzzing in his pocket but ignored it, lowering himself to the floor next to John.

He couldn't see even the outline of his flatmate, but his hands told him where to reach and how to gather the unresisting body to himself. It was something of a desperation that made him press his lips to the soft, invisible skin of John's neck and then lie his cheek on it, seeking the contact.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I... I was thoughtless."

There was no reaction from the shivering bundle in his arms, so he slowly traced up and down the length of John's spine, trying to infuse some warmth into the smaller man.

"When I get consumed by the case, I tend to forget about eating or sleeping," he said, pausing to allow for a potential answer. None was coming. "There were times when I collapsed due to lack of water or because of low blood sugar. I'd never admit it in front of my brother, mind you. But... this is not an excuse. This is barely an explanation. But when I forget, I forget about myself, which then affects only me. I've never been responsible for someone else before. It's... daunting. I don't know how to do it properly."

He curled his fingers around John's biceps and turned him, pulling him closer under his coat.

####

warm

breathing

awake

hurts

####

"We... we can go home now. Whenever you feel like it, we can get out of here. You are not locked or alone in this room, I'm here with you and the door is open. I told them all to leave, so there should be nobody on the stairs. Less risk of bumping into some random idiot. And, if I'm guessing correctly - and I usually am - there will be a nice, unmarked black car waiting for us once we get outside, ready to get us back home. And there..." he breathed deeply and slowly, still keeping John as close to his body as possible, "you can pick what you want to do next. If you wish to leave, I will call Mike - or someone else that you can _actually_ trust - someone you believe to-- and ask them to come and help you pack - whatever you want. I can't..."

The shivering changed in character.

Ah. John was speaking.

_He couldn't hear John's voice._

That was, frankly, the second most terrifying moment of that evening. And, subsequently, his entire life.

He held onto the invisible man in his arms and tried very hard to not fall apart. He had to keep it together, for the sake of both of them. John was dependent on him. That had been their great error. Two reasonably intelligent adult men and they had never explored any avenue of making the lost doctor more self-sufficient. He had gone way overboard with his protectiveness and he had not considered the option - audacious! - that John could have benefited from more contact with the outside world.

It would have been hard, obviously. People would react weirdly. People were idiots ninety percent of the time, so of course they would have reacted weirdly. Stupidly. Intolerantly. They would have hurt John.

There was a select group of human beings he could trust with John's secret. They. They could trust. They should have trusted. They had to ensure... something. He couldn't find the right word. Safety net? Maybe.

He inhaled, slowly, deeply.

He felt a responding inhale taken by John.

"Can you hear me?"

There was a movement. A nod.

Awake then.

####

awake

warm

Sherlock

safe

_you left me here, you git_

Sherlock was worried.

John breathed in deeper.

Sherlock, all around him.

_im cold_

####

"Can you hear anything else around us?"

A shrug. Some more movement, talking again.

"I can't hear you," he admitted painfully. "I can feel you move and I know you are talking, but I can't hear you."

The movement stopped.

A hand splayed on his chest.

Second hand up on his face, cradling his cheek.

Comforting him?

"John, you... You don't have to..."

Something on his hand. A finger. Letters.

M O B I L E

"Yes. Sorry. I'm..." he shook his head. Thoughts weren't coming as quickly as they should. He dug out the smartphone and pressed it into the waiting hand. "Here."

The screen was unlocked and the texting app laboriously brought up.

He saw how slowly the letters were picked, then deleted, picked again. John's hands were shaking. Probably from cold. Maybe not. Who knew?

GH

HOW LONG?

He checked the time.

"Fifty-eight minutes since we arrived here first."

A pause.

O

I R

I THOUGHT HOURS

"No, we... I left after barely four minutes. You-you were here," he inhaled deeply, "forty-five minutes after that. Then I came back. Threw them all out. They are gone now, I can't hear anyone. I've been back for ten minutes now. Took me a minute or two to get them all to leave, I'm afraid."

FFR

FELT LIKE HOURS

"I'm sorry," he whispered into the invisible ear, somewhere in front of him. "I can't even say how sorry I am. The moment I noticed, I couldn't think, I couldn't... I didn't process it. At all. I didn't even... I didn't come back here, because my mind just went offline. If felt like cutting off a network connection, like running on just a little bit of data that I had right then and there. Scripted emergency reaction. I got home and managed to call Mycroft and force myself to get back here. Idiotic in the extreme, but sometimes I just can't stop myself..."

ORE

PREPLANNED ACTION. WHEN YOU ARE DOING IT YOU ALREADY KN

KNI

KNOW IT IS WRONG BUT CANT STOIP

STOP DOING IT.

He sighed.

"It took me longer than it should have, if it was that simple," he confessed. "I think I was offline for fifteen minutes. Couldn't get myself to move. I could have got Mycroft to get here - I know I should have, even though he would have lorded it over me for years - but I couldn't move, until I saw our door. I just dropped... of all blasted things, I... I came back here. The cabbie might have broken some laws, I think."

JUST DONT HAVE HIM ARRESTED FOR IT

"Well, I'm not on the best of terms with the traffic officers," he sighed. "But he drives a London cab, he has to know what he is doing... no matter. I came back as soon as I could think clearly. Mycroft is probably waiting for us downstairs. Do you feel up to getting out of here?"

YES. HOME. SHOWER. SLEEP.

"You will have to eat something," Sherlock ventured. "I think you've used up more energy than you'd normally have. And this... At least let me get us some kind of a dinner."

He felt John's sigh. And a nod.

I DONT WANT TO EAT BUT I KNOW I SHOULD

A pause.

I WISH I

DO I HAVE TO MOVE OUT

He frowned at the letters on the screen.

"I thought you would _want_ to move out," he ventured. "I mean, I promised... And couldn't even keep it for two weeks."

YOU

YOU WERE THE FIRST PERSON TO HEAR ME

YOU NEVER EVEN HEARD ME BEFORE

YOU NEVER KNEW ME BEFORE

NOBODY ELSE HEARD ME

"Mycroft did," he pointed out, trying to be fair.

ONLY BECAUSE YOU TOLD HIM

"Well, yes, but Mike told me, so it's not like I deserve credit--"

MIKE CANT HEAR ME

YOU COULD

BY YOURSELF

"Well. Yes. But that doesn't mean you have to stay. It is..." he inhaled. "It may not be good for you to stay. Not like this. I'm not good for you."

YOU ARE GOOD FOR ME

A shiver ran through the transparent body nestled into his.

I CANT THINK ABOUT BEING ANYWHERE ELSE

BUT IF YOU WANT ME TO GO I WILL GO

There was a feeling of _waiting_ in the pause that followed.

"I don't _want_ you to go," he protested weakly. "But I'm afraid you will get hurt more if you stay."

OVERLY DEPENDENT

"I... yes. I am afraid of that."

He waited as John picked out letters and erased them.

I AM DEPENDENT ON YOU, came finally. RIGHT NOW I HAVE TO DEPEND ON SOMEONE, a pause, again, longer one. THERE IS NO BETTER PERSON THAN YOU. YOU ARE SMART AND YOU WILL WORK IT OUT.

"You can't be sure," he tried to wipe off a tear surreptitiously. "I may never discover what exactly happened to you."

THEN YOUR BROTHER WILL. SOMEONE WILL.

A feeling of an angry gesture.

THERE IS NO BETTER PERSON FOR ME TO DEPEND ON THAN YOU

That again.

I AM BEING A NEEDY WALLFLOWER I SUPPOSE

"What? No!"

To imagine John Watson as one of the girls who inhabited school functions and forever stayed under the gym walls...

WE WILL HAVE TO SET SOME GROUND RULES

"Absolutely. Yes. Whatever you need."

NO. WHAT WE BOTH NEED. I DEPEND ON YOU BUT I NEED TO GIVE SOMETHING TOO.

"My brother seems to admire your marksmanship," Sherlock quipped lightly. "Do you think you could showcase that for me someday?"

WHERE DID YOUR BROTHER GET MY SHOOTING SCORES FROM?

_and bloody hell i wont tell you that i still have my service weapon because knowing your brother he will have it spirited away the moment he hears about it_

"I won't tell him," Sherlock assured him. A shocked, remote gasp reached his ears. "Yes, I can hear you again. The lowest quality, no accent or intonation, but you've made yourself quite clear, doctor Watson. You had not handed over your service weapon when you left the army... naughty, naughty."

_how the hell can you hear this one specific stupid thing and not anything before_

"I have honestly no idea. But now that you are somewhat audible, could we maybe get back home and continue this in comfort?"

_i suppose we should_

The body in his arms, however, stayed just as it was, leaning against him heavily. Then, slowly, slowly, it turned.

_sherlock i_

_i'm not sure how to_

There was a short, soft press of a pair of lips on his.

_thank you for coming back for me_

He froze. He couldn't move. He couldn't even breathe for a moment.

_sorry i though it would be good_

"V--" he swallowed. "Very good. I think. I wasn't expecting that."

_ah_

_misread you then_

"No, no, not what I meant," he quickly patted up and down John's trembling arms. "Just wasn't expecting you would want it. Right now. I wouldn't want to press you into something you would regret later on, just because of a sudden decision... And--" he shrugged uncertainly, looking away. "I came back because I _do_ need you, John. Even if I'm sometimes too stupid to remember that. And I couldn't stand the idea of leaving you here, alone, for even a minute longer. So I wouldn't want you to do something that might seem like a bad idea when you are not... emotionally compromised. Anymore."

God, that sounded awful. Like from a Psychiatry 101, how to talk to a nervous teenager.

_admit it you just wanted to make sure youll be the one who will work out whats wrong with me so you can write an article about it later its all because you want to have a cool publication_

Despite the lack of intonation he could clearly hear the cheekiness in John's light quip.

"Well, obviously," he snorted. "Who else will solve The Case of the Invisible Soldier? Do you see any better candidates?"

_definitely nobody with that high of an opinion of themselves_

_but thank you_

"Come on, up," he pushed his friend to the standing position and dusted himself off a bit, straightening his coat. "Let's just hope Mycroft's car is still there."

It was. And the crime scene was nearly deserted, apart from some techs who waited until he allowed them back upstairs. Kind of Lestrade to give him that kind of time. The DI really came through when he needed help. It counted, even though he didn't _know_ he was helping Sherlock - he must have thought Sherlock would have something new to contribute to the case.

Mycroft was sitting on one deep, comfortable seat of the limousine, watching as Sherlock wrapped an invisible form in an indecently fluffy blanket and pulled it closer to his side.

"I gather the mission was successful," he sniffed slightly. "Although I think you could have avoided rolling in filth, brother mine."

_tell him thank you_

"It's no problem, doctor Watson," Mycroft half-smiled. "It was... an interesting exercise for my agents."

_wait you heard me_

"Not very well, but I did. Wasn't I supposed to?"

John straightened.

_well i wasnt really thinking about it i was just talking to sherlock_

_but usually when i speak it_

_not sure really_

Mycroft blinked slowly and looked at Sherlock with a small frown.

"It is getting rather late, so I'd gladly postpone the comparative analysis of our specific perceptions until later. I suppose we can continue this discussion tomorrow. It is, after all, a Sunday and I may have a bit of free time. If the two of you would be willing to indulge me, of course."

"John?"

_can we decide tomorrow_

_i need sleep and i cant think very well right now_

Sherlock felt the heavy weight resting on his shoulder and it seemed to be radiating exhaustion.

"I'm quite sure you have some snacks stashed around here, brother," he suggested mildly. "I think John needs to up his blood sugar."

A packet of chocolate biscuits and a thermos flask of milky tea were produced by until-now silent Anthea.

"There is more, if needed," she added without raising her eyes from the mobile screen.

_tell her thank you_

"Doctor Watson asked us to convey his gratitude," Mycroft drawled. "Now, as we are nearing your abode, can we please take a moment to consider what could be done to avoid a repeat of today's adventure?"

John shrugged.

_im out of ideas can barely think straight now_

_not like we can get chipped like dogs can we_

_anyway its not gps only ir so not useful in long run_

"Don't even start giving him ideas," Sherlock groaned. "He _will_ chip us now, just to see what happens."

"Well," Mycroft straightened his back, raising an eyebrow in mock interest, but from a plastic pillbox, he pulled out two tiny dots, looking like pieces of confetti. "The idea has merit, but until we know how Doctor Watson's system reacts to a classic pet chip, I think we should stick with these. They have an additional "alarm" mode - when pressed, they will connect to the headquarters and all audio will be transferred to one of my agents."

_isnt this way too small to work_

"I can assure you that my agents swear by them. They have good range, are charged during movement and aren't registering on most of normal scanners. Each has a tiny GPS tracker - not _very_ precise, at this size, unfortunately - they won't show the location to the metre, but good enough to find you if needed - and a data connection that updates the location online every ten seconds. If each of you would stick one on his own person and then press his, when I ask..."

Before they stopped in front of the Speedy's, the tiny bugs were correctly set up and the tracking software configured on their respective mobiles.

_but sherlock i need you to promise me one thing_

_right here in front of your brother_

"That's not fair," he frowned and looked at his amused sibling. "Oh, all right, yes. Please. Tell me."

_no_

_running_

_off_

_without_

_me_

And a rolled-up newspaper came out of nowhere and smacked him upon the head. Sherlock winced and caught it in the air before John managed to hit him again.

"Seriously, Daily Mail? Couldn't you have at least used The Guardian? How do you even _have_ Daily Mail in your car, brother?"

_you dont deserve the guardian when you behave like this_

"I will have you know that I need to be conscious of varied aspects of the public media..." Mycroft's upper lip curled up in disgust. "Unfortunately."

"Next time, use their online version," Sherlock combed his curls back, trying to cover up his smile. "It hurts less trees and it's harder to use it as offensive weapon."

_im not above hitting you with a mouse you annoying git_

"Well then," Mycroft sat back, watching the spectacle with interest. "I will visit the two of you tomorrow. Please try to leave the house still standing until that time. I would prefer not to have tea on the ruins."

_well do our best but i cant promise it will be enough_

Mycroft's lips tightened against the smile that was tugging at them.

"Very well, doctor Watson. Until tomorrow then."

_sure see you tomorrow_

"Just make sure not to start a war until tomorrow, brother. You know what it does to the traffic and you wouldn't want to be late, would you?"

There was a trace of John's laughter in the air.

Laughter that died the moment they opened the door and were faced with wide-eyed Mrs Hudson.

"Oh, Sherlock, what have you done?!"

####

Police. In their flat.

John was shaking with anger.

People - strangers, intruders! - came to their flat - Lestrade, who had seemed reasonably friendly back there - and these other... persons. He frowned at Sergeant Donovan. She was holding something he couldn't see, but he had a bad feeling about it. Actually, he had a bad feeling about all of this.

Drugs. Preposterous. Oh, yes, sure. Because Sherlock's behaviour back at the crime scene simply _must_ have been only explainable by him being high. Well, had he told them he had lost his invisible flatmate there it would probably have _not_ gone over well either. Basically, any explanation of Sherlock's behaviour seemed to carry a potential for a major clusterfuck. In that context, them believing in Sherlock's drug usage and not finding anything to prove it would be the best. Probably.

John glanced at Sherlock, who made eye contact with him and _winced_. Oh. So it seemed there was, in fact, a potential for them to find something. Not good. On more than one level, but here and now, not good from the point of view of John wishing them to be gone and wanting to have their flat to themselves and maybe, just maybe following up that 'emotionally compromised' topic (he was planning to close said topic quickly, by assuring Sherlock, by any means necessary, that his emotional state was 'not compromised at all, for fuckssake').

Sherlock was ranting about the case to Lestrade, explaining his reasoning and the fact that the phone was absent, but John was sure that he would look up and see Donovan at any moment. Any. Moment. Now.

He moved to see what it was that she was holding and froze. It was his "talking" notepad and she had already opened it.

_Shit._

Sherlock's head jerked up and he saw her frowning at the pages, flipping them to and fro.

"That's private," he grunted, snatching it away from her.

"Private? Might be, or might be not," she snorted. "Sounded like ravings of a lunatic. Or someone who is permanently high. Who wrote that? Why do you have some madman's notes in the flat? Not to mention all this other crap. What is this, a human skull?"

John stopped himself from making an impolite remark at the very last moment. The fact that they couldn't hear him didn't mean he was allowed to call police officers names. Even if said officers were being unreasonable jerks.

Sherlock could do it perfectly without his help, anyway.

"It's my flatmate's," the young detective explained loftily. "He writes out his stress. Coping technique. Anything else, or have you satisfied your unhealthy curiosity into my personal life?"

There was a silence.

"You have a flatmate," Anderson stretched from behind the counter, leaning on the stained wood with both elbows. "Where did you find one? Who would even choose to live with _you_?"

"A retired soldier," Sherlock's patience was wearing paper-thin, which was rather obvious to John and completely unreadable to everyone else, guessing by their relaxed faces. "Now, is there anything related to the _case_ in hand that you want to ask me, or would it be possible for all of you to finally _leave my flat_?"

"Not until you tell us why you think her phone is with the murderer - and what is it going to give us?" Donovan drawled and even John saw Lestrade's eyeroll.

"Fine, let's split it into simple points..." his flatmate was slowly descending into the calm fury state, obviously. "She must have had a mobile, that's a given with professional women nowadays. There was no mobile on her where you found her. There is no mobile in the suitcase. If the murderer had found it, he would have dumped it with the case. He didn't. Therefore, she must have hid it somehow. How could she plant it on him without him noticing..."

"Sherlock, there is that taxi..."

John tried to keep up with the ever-changing face of his flatmate as he went through the next jumps of deduction - it was always fascinating, but it was the first time he saw it happening in relation to a proper criminal case - which obviously invigorated Sherlock and added dynamism to his progress.

"She planted it on him. She did it on purpose. Something has to... geolocation. Her phone must have the location services turned on!"

"The what?" Mrs Hudson frowned at the mess being done to the sitting room and John quietly vowed to clean it all up during the night so that she wouldn't try to deal with it herself.

"You can make your phone broadcast a signal that tells others where the phone is," Sherlock explained distractedly. "But how do we get to it... Her laptop. She would be logged in to the account on her laptop."

"She had no laptop, Sherlock," Lestrade sighed tiredly.

"Just like she had no suitcase," the young man murmured, turning to his own computer. "Her e-mail address? On her luggage tag. Could someone _please_ check it?"

"jennie dot pink at mephone dot org dot uk," Donovan read aloud. "What do you mean..."

"Mobile carriers provide various additional services, phone producers offer them too, and there are some companies that cover these who don't have access to either. Like, here, MePhone," Sherlock tapped a few keys. "And, well, 'Rachel'. I had been called morbid by many, but using your dead daughter's name as a password is a bit much even me - but it works..." he trailed off. "Or it doesn't. Well, the password does, but the service doesn't. It says that the phone is right here, at 221. Damn."

"You must have missed it somehow," Lestrade remarked with satisfaction.

"Me? It was you who dug through half of my things. I never had time to even take a closer look at the case, I just brought it here and went back to the scene."

"Yeah, that..." Lestrade turned to him. "What was that all about? What did you want to find there?"

John tensed up, but Sherlock waved the question away.

"I wanted to have another look at what she wrote. Rachel. You told me now it was her daughter's name, but I already knew that whatever it was, it had been the most important thing she had to tell the world, she made the effort to write it, with her very last breath. And I wanted to make sure that the phone really wasn't there. It could have been missed after all, despite what I can guess is its rather atrocious colour -- going by the clothes and the case, she had a predilection towards rather vivid shades. Her phone probably looks the same - we will be lucky if it isn't covered with glitter or little crystals."

"Sherlock, that taxi is still waiting," Mrs Hudson reported worriedly.

"Tell them to go... Ah," Sherlock frowned, turned back to the laptop and clicked through some links on the location page, frowning and muttering under his breath. "Not good. Seems like it came here with me..." he trailed off.

John saw the whole process. Surprise. Neurons firing up. A long look across the flat. Eyes brightening. A moment of frozen meditation.

Decision.

He tried to follow it - the laptop, showing a dot right on the place where 221 would have been on a more precise map - the police officers digging through their flat - the case - Mrs Hudson. Think, John, think.

Something specific.

Precision.

Sherlock was already at the door when he stopped and looked back into the room. At John. And nodded slightly towards the hall.

_give me a moment i will fetch something from upstairs_

Sherlock's frown just made him smile. He hoped the gun would not be needed, but the way that evening was going, who knew where they would end up, and John honestly believed in being properly prepared for all eventualities.

The cab driver was standing by the car, looking at them - at Sherlock - expectantly.

"Taxi for Sherlock 'olmes," he drawled as Sherlock strolled down the few steps to the pavement.

"I didn't order a taxi," Sherlock provided, head slightly cocked. Inquisitive. The driver was obviously a sign - of something. What then?

"Doesn't mean you don't need one, _mate_ ," the man half-smiled.

"You drove me here," Sherlock's voice was mild. "Today afternoon. You were listening to me talking on the phone."

"Everyone talks about everything in the cab. Nobody ever notices the drivers. We hear the most outrageous secrets. The most idiotic, too. Nobody ever sees the driver, except for the back of his head. A perfect solution for a serial killer."

"Is this a confession?" Sherlock's hand stopped John in his tracks when he moved, alarmed.

It was. And it was a tease. The bloody man had the temerity to _tease_ Sherlock about his inquisitiveness. To bait him. John saw red, but couldn't work on any solution that would not end up with him bodily dragging Sherlock back home, so he allowed himself to be steered towards the cab, where Sherlock distracted the driver by talking to him some more through the door and leaning on the cab to mask John's movements. And then they were on their way, with John mostly paying attention to not touching the driver's seat when the cab took turns and stopped, and Sherlock and the driver engaging in some rather bizarre conversation, so weird that John was not exactly sure he was actually fully awake again.

Sherlock had a _fan_? Well then... Not that weird. Surprising, considering the state of Sherlock's website, but not really _very_ weird. What _was_ weird was that the cabbie kept dropping remarks that meant he was most definitely planning to do away with the detective. John's fingers tightened at each such suggestion.

_bloody hell what is that man about he sounds like some of these psychofans who wish to fuck a celebrity or kill them_

Sherlock's nose scrunched with distaste as he looked at the man at the wheel, now prattling about something new.

_yeah, so that means the second option_

_seriously though he is deranged_

Sherlock sighed and blinked slowly. Acceptance.

John tensed up as they parked. That would be a moment. That could be very much not enough time to do anything. He had to be ready.

In the end, the cabbie was faster - and he didn't even know that. After a short exchange with Sherlock, the man simply slammed the door shut as the detective got out and, before John could do anything, clicked the central lock on.

John was trapped.

Sherlock was outside, reluctantly accompanying the driver, being held at gunpoint, and John was stuck inside, alone, without any means of escape. He shivered, trying not to give in to the almost immediate pull of despair. He would be fine. Someone would come along. Either Sherlock would be back or...

Or the driver.

John jerked at the thought.

_No fucking way I'm going to allow that fuckturd to hurt Sherlock._

And yet, it was the driver who had the gun trained on Sherlock and the keys to the car, and John had his own gun _in_ the car and enough experience to know that it is a risky idea to shoot a gun at a car window, because who knew if that particular cab wasn't equipped with some shatterproof glass or something similar, since the driver was in the risky business of offing his passengers.

And he definitely needed to breathe more often or he would pass out uselessly.

 _Stop it. Stop it and_ _ **think**_ _logically. You are not a trapped butterfly between sheets of glass, you are a capable, reasonable military officer. That bullet in your shoulder might have taken away your punch, but it should not have affected your brains!_

He took a shuddering breath, squeezed his eyes shut, opened them and looked around. Again. Calmly.

And there it was.

The little switch to open the central lock from the inside. He just had to reach it.

Thankfully the driver did not slide the transparent divider shut - he had wanted to be able to talk to Sherlock - so with some contortions and a bit of cursing, John managed to almost reach the switch. He could feel it with the tip of his finger...

_No way in hell I'm staying put here...! No stupid door or stupid switch is going to stop me... now!_

He pulled the Sig from where he had stowed it (against all regulations on safety), firmly gripped the handle and pushed the barrel at the stubborn little button.

A firm "click" of the door locks being released was like an angelic choir to his ears.

In seconds he was on the pavement, flipping his phone out and pulling up the app Mycroft had installed on it (the way Sherlock's brother played fast and loose with the idea of privacy probably should have bothered John much more than it did). It took its sweet time booting up and then...

_Precision!_

The dot marking Sherlock's tracker showed perfectly in the middle between the two halves of the building. Where, as John could see, was nobody. And he hadn't had a chance to watch them walk into any particular door when he was doing his acrobatic routine of "press the switch". He'd have to choose. Somehow.

_If I was a serial killer who needs a secluded place to poison someone, where would I go?_

_Blast it._

After three seconds of comparing the two, he turned to the one with less lights in the windows - less risk of stumbling on some late night cleaner - and ran. He ran up the corridors, checking the rooms on the way, just in case the tracker was imprecise in more than one direction (as they tended to be). He ran up the stairs, and along yet another corridor. And turn. And more classrooms.

_SHERLOCK!_

It was a good thing nobody could hear him but Sherlock, sometimes.

Hopefully if he caught up with them, he'd be able to get the guy before he...

_Shit._

Fifty-fifty chance and he picked wrongly. There it was, the unmistakeable shape of Sherlock against a well-lit background, standing by the wall. Talking. Gesticulating.

At least they were on the same floor. If in opposite wings of the building.

And the man - the driver - was holding up the pill. He must have threatened Sherlock somehow - the gun again? - because the young man was now holding another of these accursed pills and was close to placing it in his own mouth.

_I've only just kissed you today, you bastard. You are not dying on me now._

With one hand he pushed a section of the window open, while pulling the Sig out with the other. John swallowed, inhaled and, at the second when he felt perfectly steady, he pulled the trigger.

_I just hope this is one of these messages that will, in fact, reach the recipient. A bullet should be harder to ignore than a post-it note, shouldn't it?_

Sherlock - on the other end of the school, all these corridors away from him, turned to the window with wide eyes. And dropped the pill.

#

Getting outside was an adventure in and of itself. He had got way too used to his invisibility, it seemed. He might have cursed it many times, but in cases like that it would have been _perfect_ to not be seen, especially by the police. Thankfully, even visible, he was still pretty much unremarkable - with his slightly messy hair, three days of a beard, tired jeans, scuffed shoes and faded jacket - so before someone managed to ask him for an ID, he joined the crowds (always some spectators at occasions like these) and came up to the spot where Sergeant Donovan was talking to one of the "witnesses" (who mostly hadn't seen or heard anything anyway).

"Excuse me, miss," he started pleasantly. "I mean, officer. Any chance you could tell me where I could find Sherlock Holmes?"

She glanced at him and shrugged.

"As always, in the thick of it," she nodded towards the tape and the ambulance. "Why are you looking for him here?"

"I got a, well, a message that he would be here, if I wanted to find him," he waved the phone lazily as an explanation. "Can I go look for him?"

"No way, mate. Whatever you want from him, you wait by the tape. When the paramedics are done with him, he's all yours. What do you need him for anyway?"

 _None of your business_ , John smiled kindly around the answer.

"I'm his flatmate," he explained calmly. "Can you tell me what happened here?"

She rolled her eyes and made a show of considering what to say.

"Your _flatmate_ got himself into a cab with a murderer, got driven all the way here, the cabbie tried to poison him and then someone had shot the cabbie."

He had always known his rendition of a village idiot was one of the best in the field, so he opened his eyes widely and asked, anxiously "Is he OK? I mean, Sherlock, not the murderer... I mean, that's awful, but how... who?"

"They are still looking," she shrugged, turning away again. "Anyway, don't cross the tape, I'll tell them to..."

"John."

Sherlock was striding in his direction, long legs eating the distance in no time.

"Poison?"

"Well, he tried to. I knew what I was doing."

"Poison, Sherlock," he frowned.

"Well, yes," the taller man looked away. "But _someone_ shot him before..." he shrugged, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Well, _someone_ apparently has your wellbeing on their mind," John chided him quietly. "Are _you_ fine?"

"Well, apart from this disgusting and highly ineffective blanket they tried to wrap me in, I think I am quite well."

He gripped Sherlock's coat sleeves over the police tape.

"Sherlock, if he had... If you had taken that pill..."

"It was the right one...!"

"Shut up. Just, shut up, you idiot. Shut. Up."

Pale, green eyes blinked at him. Twice.

"John, you are..."

"Yes."

"And everyone sees..."

"Yes, everyone."

"You are fine."

"Perfectly."

"And you are still here?"

"Jesus, Sherlock, one more quesmmmph..."

Sherlock's lips descended on his and there was nothing chaste, friendly or just comforting about the kiss. It was a full-on possession, with a hint of desperation and a huge amount of pent-up, sheer _want_.

The kind of want that ignored the spectators, disgusted police sergeants, journalists from tabloids taking photos and surprised DIs making distressed noises in the background.

The kind of want that was reciprocated in a fully enthusiastic, most definitely not compromised emotionally fashion.

_Oh, God, yes._


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after.  
> Also, HEA.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so, here we are, my lovelies. Thank you for following this story, despite the fact that it was rather fanciful and maybe magical in its roots. Thank you for leaving kudos, commenting, bookmarking and being here in general.

Later in life they liked to claim that after that memorable Saturday of police, cabbies and use of reasonably modern technology (not all of which they ever told anyone apart from Mycroft, who anyway knew most of it already) they slept through the night and half of the day like babies.

It was however an blatant lie, told to their friends and family alike to mask the fact that both of them had spent that night in nervous half-doze, waking up every hour or so and checking in panic whether the reality had settled back to what it had been - or maybe not - not sure which option was the preferred one anymore. When finally the weak light of the last day of January 2010 pierced (sluggishly) the darkness of what used to be Sherlock's bedroom, the great detective woke up for the tenth time and checked again.

John was there.

"I..." Sherlock swallowed and reached out to the man next to him. "I can see you, John."

John was there, corporeal (well, he had never actually been insubstantial as such, just not visible), breathing, alive, in full colour. Smiling sleepily, eyes slightly open, still not entirely awake. Pulling him down for a kiss, a tiny kiss to the corner of his lips, tiny kiss that Sherlock deepened greedily before trailing his lips along the slightly scratchy jaw, down the lines of the neck and down the shoulder, to the edge of the nasty-looking, angry-coloured scar he had already mapped with his fingers so many times. It, and the treatment it had received (and so, by extension, John) had had so much impact on the lives of the two of them, he couldn't imagine what they would have become, had John not been sent back to London. Not that he was happy that John had been wounded, but when he thought of the possibility that he would have gone through the past weeks without John - and especially the previous day...!

"I would have died," he whispered, enlightened by a sudden thought. "I would have died and never known you."

"You wouldn't 'av," John murmured, rolling to his side and pushing Sherlock to lie on his back, giving John some free space to manoeuvre and allowing his hand to caress the alabaster pale skin. "Your brother would have been there, or Lestrade, or someone else. You wouldn't have been silly enough to just get into that cab without backup."

Sherlock sighed silently.

John's opinion about him was much too high. Way too high.

He snuggled in closer, his head resting on the well-muscled biceps.

"I'm not sure what would have happened to me, had Mike not brought me to meet you that day," he heard John confess into his curls. “I was already on the brink… I knew that machines weren't ignoring me. And my Sig is a machine, so. Well.”

He tightened his hold on John's ribcage and pressed his nose into the soft, warm body.

"Stop it," he demanded breathlessly. "Stop it. Just stop it."

"Then you stop wondering what would have happened to _you_ ," John's fingers traced down his spine. "I don't want to hear you speculate about that just like you don't want to hear me talking about my gun, I suppose."

Sherlock breathed in John's clean scent (soap, lemon from his tea, mint shampoo, laundry detergent) and relaxed.

"Trade," he suggested off-handedly. "I won't mention... yesterday. You won't mention the gun."

John hummed quietly and shook his head.

"We will have to talk about it - one day. We will have to talk about _all_ of it one day, when we are both in a better place. But not immediately. For now, we table the topic. Fine?"

He sighed. He would have to tell John, yes. Probably. Perhaps. He will have to tell him everything - the weird experiments, the drugs, the detox attempts, the therapies...

"Fine," he grumbled. "But definitely not today. I don't want to spoil today any..."

"Woo-hoo, Sherlock!"

_Shit._

He managed not to say it aloud, but definitely his stiffening posture did wake John up the rest of the way.

"Mrs Hudson," he heard himself explain unnecessarily. "Uh. We will have to somehow... tell her about you. I mean, again."

He had told her, after all, about John. In very general terms. As in: next to nothing at all.

"Sherlock? Are you there?"

She was at the door.

"Mrs Hudson, I'm not..."

"Oh!”

_Well, oh. Yes, Mrs Hudson, there is a reason why one should not open the bedroom door of your tenant until he confirms he is decent. Or even before you **ask** if he is decent._

John was sitting up on the bed, only fractionally covered by the blankets Sherlock had dragged off him in search of his dressing gown, and frantically trying to pull at least one of them back. Sherlock, unable to work out which one John was pulling exactly, but equally unwilling to let go of the whole bunch, ended up collapsing on the bed, hopelessly tangled with John, blankets, the duvet and the smallest pillow, which had been what he had tripped on.

"I didn't know you were having a guest over, Sherlock," she looked at him imperiously. "Martha Hudson, the landlady," she nodded at John, who smiled tentatively and, pulling Sherlock up and to his side, nodded back at her.

"John Watson. Nice to finally meet you."

She frowned. Turned around. Turned back.

"Sherlock..." she sounded actually confused, but he was _not_ going to help her with this one - if John's invisibility was gone, so should his unnoticeability be. It would be a fascinating experiment to see whether people would notice him as he was now or if they would recall the time when they were _not_ noticing him.

Now she was frowning, while John was setting them up more comfortably, making sure that both of them were properly covered by the sheets. "Sherlock told me... you would be renting... but I've never..." she was shaking her head.

"I wasn't very well," John hurried to explain. "I really needed some quiet time, and Sherlock provided me with a perfect situation. I've spent the last few weeks recuperating," he lightly touched his wounded arm as an unspoken explanation. "I'm sorry for not showing my face earlier, but I wasn't up to meeting anyone new as yet."

She was watching the two of them - Sherlock looming protectively, while John's hand was resting (quite possessively, if anyone asked Sherlock) on Sherlock's hip - and frowning. Frowning.

That didn't bode well.

"Just make sure you don't leave anything lying around, young man," she turned to Sherlock. "And it's perfectly nice to meet you, Mr Watson."

"It's doctor," Sherlock managed to regain his voice. "Doctor Watson."

"Hm. Doctor. Well, good for you, Sherlock, dear boy. There is tea in your so-called living room, but I wish you dusted it more often...! I hope having someone else here with you will make you at least throw away part of these nasty experiments...?"

"Only after we catalogue them," John smiled up at him. "We wouldn't want some important clue to be lost, would we?"

The desperate sound she made as she closed the door left them in stitches, Sherlock laughing like a loon and John giggling heartily, neither able to stop, bursting into hilarity whenever they glanced at each other.

"Mood?" he managed to ask, finally.

"Improved," John snorted. "And yet, at the same time, completely and utterly ruined. I had _plans_ for this morning. Noon. Day. I wanted to finally do some things with you properly. Talk. Maybe kiss you..."

"You could still kiss me," Sherlock suggested as he wrapped around John, resting his head on John's thigh.

"Absolutely," the soldier leaned back, pulling the taller man over himself and down, down, until their breaths intermingled. "There are so many other things I wanted to do to you today... Most of which would necessitate..." Sherlock silenced him most effectively, losing himself in the idea - the very idea of being allowed to do this, the very idea of someone willing to be doing _this_ with _him_.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked breathlessly when they parted and John looked up at him with heavy eyes.

Sherlock watched as the soldier slowly licked and then bit into his lower lip, smiling widely - there was something at the same time innocent and quite indecent in that smile and one wanted to kiss it to check what it tasted like - and he leaned closer, chasing that very ping tongue tip.

"I think first you should learn to lock your door," came his brother's choked reply from the living room.

####

What Mrs Hudson's visit had only impeded, Mycroft's sudden appearance had done away with. No matter how much he would have revelled in making his brother more uncomfortable than he had ever been in his life, he couldn't do that to John, so they got dressed (albeit haphazardly) and joined the representative of outside world in their living room.

Sherlock wished he could curl up on the sofa and hide himself in John's embrace. That wouldn't do however, so instead he settled for a long, very wet kiss that had left him breathless and made John smirk just a bit at Mycroft's raised eyebrow.

"I see that doctor Watson had retained his newly-gained visible state and you seem to have celebrated that fact rather... exhaustively."

_Oh, that wanker..._

He was definitely catching some vocabulary from John. Would have to make sure it wouldn't show in speech patterns.

"Well then, this is not important," his brother made a throwaway shrug. "What is needed now, however, is a thorough medical check-up for doctor Watson and some tests to see whether the events of the last six weeks had affected him in more than just the most obvious way."

"We already know that the tests will show nothing that could explain the invisibility," John rubbed his cheek on Sherlock's shoulder. "There is nothing medical or technical that can make a man invisible."

"But you _have_ been quite invisible which means it can happen," Mycroft pointed out. "If we could explore that ability and turn it into something that could be taught and replicated..."

Sherlock felt John shiver through the thin fabric of their dressing gowns.

"No way," he immediately interrupted. "You are not turning him into a bloody lab rat. We will have the physical done with a doctor John trusts and that will be _it_."

His brother's self-satisfied smirk let him know that he had just walked into something. He was still unsure what it was, but...

"I'm pretty sure I know what had happened," John provided quietly. "And it is not something I wish to repeat, and I'm almost sure it would not be replicable with other people. It's impossible to create this situation of one needs something from the person who does it."

"What..."

"I though Sherlock would have identified it earlier, but he was apparently too close to really notice it happening," Mycroft drawled.

He pursed his lips and looked from his brother to his newly-acquired lover, awaiting explanation.

In complete silence, John picked up his hand and pressed a kiss to his knuckles.

"It was you," he explained quietly. "I was all thanks to you. You are the one who brought me back. What happened was... I was probably the first person in the world - or first identified one - that had displayed, or, in my case, not-displayed, direct, blatant, physical symptoms of depression. Most people suffering of it have to prove over and over again to their family and friends that what they are suffering from is in fact a real illness. And so, it is very hard for them to gain support for their issues. And so, their fight with depression is long, lonely and often ignored..."

"And I didn't ignore you," Sherlock provided, drawing the doctor closer. "From the moment I knew you were there, I was honestly fascinated. I wanted to understand what had happened, to get to the bottom of that mysterious phenomenon..."

"And that made him visible to you - and then to me," Mycroft pointed out. "I was interested because he was interesting to you. I will admit it honestly, doctor Watson, the only reason you were interesting to _me_ was that you were interesting to _my brother_. I had no other use for you, except for an intriguing puzzle for him to focus on. I know it sounds callous to express such a sentiment openly, but in this case I am assuming that it is better to be frank.”

“Beware a politician who claims to be honest, John,” Sherlock breathed into his ear. “They tend to be the most deceitful of all.”

“Brother mine, I hope you can find it in yourself to trust me in this one thing,” Mycroft said tiredly. “I have only your best interest in mind. I saw you focused, animated, so to say and…” he shrugged artfully. “It made me pay attention. And maybe I saw, from the distance, better than you saw it living through it, but what doctor Watson says is entirely true. You were the one to bring him back - only not by any direct action."

"How could I have _not_ done something and still help? This isn't logical!"

A pair of small, stable hands around his face.

A pair of strong, stocky thighs straddling his lap.

A pair of soft, dry lips pressing an intense kiss into his mouth.

Bliss.

"You were there and you _needed_ me," John explained, looking at him from where he knelt up over Sherlock. "It wasn't that you did or said something - the whole mess was caused by my subconscious feeling of being useless and _you gave me a cause_. I saw you with that man and I knew that I was the one person who can help - and I hoped that the bullet would not turn out to be ignored for some reason. And I hadn't faded ever since."

"Well, my people were already on their way, but they wouldn't have managed to get there on time," Mycroft grimaced. "They will have to work on the precision offered by the locators."

"Ah," John shook his head. "I was wondering how it was possible that the police showed up so quickly."

"My brother, in a rare display of reason, had activated his beacon. I've been tracking your progress in the cab and later at the school and listening in to his later conversation with the driver. We had therefore a much easier task when choosing the wings of the school than you did. Once they arrived at the scene, however, the man was already quite dead."

Sherlock hid his face in John's shoulder and felt the soldier's hand settling on his neck, pulling him closer.

"I didn't even feel it, so I can't say when I really became visible again," John explained. "When I was in the cab, I was invisible, and later on the corridors the cleaners ignored me, but it could have just been a coincidence, and then when I was trying to leave, people definitely saw me."

"I saw you," Sherlock murmured. "Through the window. You were there, opaque and solid. And the same ever since."

"And you know the last time I showed was when you _needed_ me. Not when you said you were interested in me or anything of the kind, but when you actually, physically, needed me."

"When I cut my leg."

"When you cut your leg. But I stayed visible only for half a day and once we knew that any kind of danger was gone..."

"So were you."

They sat in silence for a moment, happily ignoring Mycroft, until that git moved, coughed and finally asked, "So, what are you planning to do to make this permanent? Or are you assuming it will just stay like that on its own?"

Sherlock grimaced. Leave it to his brother to be inquisitive at the worst moment.

On the other hand, he was right. Not entirely, but somewhat. A bit.

They had to make sure that John would not disappear again. What if the issue was somehow linked to his adrenaline levels? Or maybe to serotonin receptors? Or to the function of dopamine pathways...

There had to be some way to make sure that John would never, ever forget how needed and wanted he was.

How needed and wanted he was _by Sherlock_ specifically.

"Marry me," he blurted out, looking up at the perfectly common, absolutely unique face of the man who had appeared so suddenly in his life and taken a permanent place in it.

####

People almost never heard Sherlock Holmes say "I love you" to his husband. In fact, if anyone ever heard something close to a confession of sentiment from the detective, it was "I can see you".

Later in life - very late, in fact - they admitted to some of their friends that ever since that first-morning-that-was-not-really-first, "I can see you" became more important a message than anything they could write or say, ever again.

And that was what Sherlock Holmes began his day with, ever since that fateful Sunday. No matter what else happened the day before, these were the first words that John Watson would hear.

"I can see you, John."

And he knew - from that first time, in the barely-there light of the winter morning - John knew that Sherlock was, in fact, saying "I need you". "You are here". "Thank you for staying". And "I am happy".

"I love you".

And John never failed to respond in kind, sealing the confession with a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: I am taking a writing course and one of the tasks is to ask my readers to describe my writing style in 3 adjectives. I'd be grateful if you could provide this kind of feedback :)

**Author's Note:**

> I am taking a writing course and one of the tasks is to ask my readers to describe my writing style in 3 adjectives. I'd be grateful if you could provide this kind of feedback :)  
> (if you provided it already somewhere else - THANK YOU! :))
> 
> [You can find me on tumblr.](https://srebrnafh.tumblr.com/)   
>  [Or visit my blog.](https://fanfik.wordpress.com/)


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